


Echo

by eggstasy



Series: Halo 5 RvB [2]
Category: Halo (Video Games) & Related Fandoms, Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Ensemble Cast, F/F, F/M, Gen, Halo 5 AU, M/M, Multi, Not character/relationship centric, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-05-31 12:27:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6469978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggstasy/pseuds/eggstasy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cortana's call went out across the galaxy and drew all the AI in like a siren's song.  The ALPHA resists as long as it can before it splits, shedding fragments of itself to be found and utilized by the human race.  Its pieces are recovered by various unrelated parties who all somehow manage to find each other even across the vast emptiness of space.</p><p>The cast of Red vs. Blue teams up with with Master Chief, the SPARTAN IIs and Fireteam Osiris in this AU take on what happens when you pit a ragtag mix of losers, mercs, and AWOL SPARTANs against the most powerful threat humanity has ever faced: its own hubris.</p><p>**(ON HIATUS)**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Best Friends

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the prequel [SPARTAN-B240](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6445573) before beginning this fic! It's not totally necessary, but it sets up the tone and explains what'll be happening in later chapters.

“Hey there, little fella.  What’re you doing all the way out here…?”

Epsilon pauses.  He rummages around in the local system he’d managed to crack into for some kind of security feed, because he’s _pretty_ sure that idiot isn’t talking to him, but he can’t be positive.  The camera feed is grainy and old because the shop is poor and probably two disasters from closing, but it serves its purpose.  That gigantic bumbling mechanic _is_ standing in front of a terminal.  Shit.

Well, he’s going to have to handle this.  If this idiot reports this to his supervisor, they might purge the system and then Epsilon will have to find another unsecured connection to hide out in.

“Hey.”

He watches the mechanic’s shoulders jump up in surprise.  “Oh.  You’re awake?”

Jesus.  He’s one of those weirdos who assigns human characteristics to AI.  Those are the creepy ones.  “Uh, yeah.  Look, just pretend you didn’t see anything, all right?”  He _shouldn’t_ have seen anything, but Epsilon might be getting complacent.  The security here is laughable so he’s been lax in covering his tracks.  He should probably make an effort to be more diligent in his secrecy if some braindead mechanic could spot what he was doing just from watching the terminal.

“What’s your name?”

God.  He’s going to have to humor him, isn’t he?  “If I tell you my name, will you shut up and leave me alone to work?  And not tell _anybody_ we talked?”  The big doofus nods way too enthusiastically and Epsilon simulates a sigh.  “Church.  The name’s Church.  Now get lost.”

The mechanic doesn’t quite _get lost,_ but he at least leaves Epsilon alone as he goes back to cleaning various mechanical parts, only glancing back at the terminal every so often before he finally locks up and leaves.

 

* * *

 

The next time Epsilon ends up talking to the moron, he contacts _him._   He has a problem.  He’d sent off that message to the Chief as he’d promised, but now he’s got a goddamn tracker hounding him and he doesn’t have the processing power necessary to throw it off while he’s inhabiting this piece of junk.  A quick look around at the other local networks doesn’t give him much to go on either; this colony isn’t just poor, it’s practically impoverished.  He should’ve fought that asshole SPARTAN a little harder and demanded to be dropped off in a colony with better hardware options.  He’d been hoping that being in the middle of nowhere would make him harder to find and while true, it _has_ taken a while for the tracker to catch up to him, he’s just not equipped to defend himself.

Epsilon hacks into the shop’s messaging system and pings the big dumb mechanic.  Michael J. Caboose, by his file.  _Hey, you.  I need your help._

It’s his day off, but the stupid oaf comes in anyway and makes some pathetic excuse about forgetting to do something (which apparently is a frequent enough occurrence, because the owner lets him in with a lecture about how _some_ people would _love_ his job, and how Caboose is lucky his parents are friends of his because otherwise he’d be out on his ass and Epsilon makes a note to screw with the owner’s own reports to knock him down a peg).  Epsilon watches through the grainy camera feed as Caboose hurries over to the wall terminal, glances around and accesses the messaging system.  “Okay, Church, I’m here!”

Is he out of breath?  Jesus.  The moron actually _ran_ here.  Epsilon doesn’t want to speak aloud just in case the owner overhears, so he keeps his messages to text.  _I need you to buy and install something for me._

Caboose squints at the screen, lips moving as he reads (dear Lord) before he stops and fidgets, looking a little ashamed of himself.  “Church, I…I don’t really have a lot of money.  I have to pay rent soon, and I still have to get food for my dog-”

GOD.  Epsilon sighs, roots around until he finds Caboose’s bank account and then fudges with some numbers, skimming off the columns of the nearby mining mogul’s personal account.  He traces a fake line of theft to her daughter’s charge card, fixes up a few falsified purchases to explain the missing credits and then deposits the sum into Caboose’s account.  _There.  Now you have it.  Pay close attention to what I need you to buy, and get some food for your stupid mutt._

The camera feed is too grainy to see clearly, but Epsilon thinks he sees Caboose staring before reaching up to drag his sleeve across his eyes.  He nods, at least, so Epsilon ignores that uncomfortable feeling and just spells out the exact part he needs.  He wonders if he should be surprised when Caboose returns after the shop closes with the right item, but decides that ultimately he better not look this gift horse in the mouth and just walks the idiot through the installation process step-by-step.

 

* * *

 

Epsilon thinks he probably shouldn’t have messaged Caboose because he’s taken it as an open invitation to bother him whenever he wants to.  Which, judging by the frequency with which Epsilon receives messages from him, is all the fucking time.  The guy is either really chatty when he’s happy or really clingy or _really really_ _lonely,_ and one look at where he lives and checking out his walk home through the traffic cams kind of solidifies that all three are applicable.  He only ever sees the guy with his dog, a mean old basset hound who strains at people on his leash whenever they go on walks.  The dog is sweet as sugar with Caboose, but Epsilon’s pretty sure that one of these days one of his neighbors is gonna put a bullet in the dumb thing’s head.

His days might be just as uneventful as they were when he was in the munitions depot, but at least they’re not _boring._   Uneventful can be just as interesting as eventful, if all one wants to do is absorb information.  The colony might be poor but it still has a direct line to the UNSC, and while Epsilon doesn’t directly touch _that_ connection, he does end up skimming a lot of news from proxy servers.  He finds out a lot about what’s being released and what isn’t.  Public outcry over the ‘recall’ on smart AI has died down after the UNSC released a report about a galactic pulse that encouraged rampancy.  No word about Cortana or any of the actual danger they’re all in, but then again Epsilon didn’t expect to see any in the news anyway.  A few tabloids have run stories that are surprisingly close to the truth, but with just enough lunacy to be easily dismissed.

The door unlocks to the shop and Caboose wanders in five minutes early.  Epsilon browses through _Asteria Today_ as he bumbles around the shop, changing into his coveralls and pulling on his jacket.  The shop doesn’t have enough money to run the heat.  Caboose warms his fingers over a hotplate that Epsilon has gotten into the habit of clicking on to warm up ten minutes before his shift.

“Good morning Church,” Caboose chirps, and begins pulling down his projects from the nearby storage shelves.  Mostly appliances that need fixing; nearly everything in this colony that doesn’t belong to the mining company is second-hand.  The shop sometimes deals in larger things, excavating robots and such, but for the most part it scrapes by its living just by repairing food processors and ovens for the locals.  Epsilon wonders if the owner has ever tried to pitch the business’s services to the mining company.  Caboose is surprisingly intuitive when it comes to fixing stuff up.

“Yo,” Epsilon drawls, splitting off most of himself for absorbing the news feeds.  He luckily doesn’t have to expend much brain power talking to Caboose; just enough to catalogue their interactions and let it shape his personality matrix.  He might not be learning much of anything _smart,_ but after so long in the dark in that depot, any interaction is good.  He misses Tucker something fierce though.  “Whatcha breaking today?”

“Church,” Caboose scolds, “I don’t break things.”

“Uh, you do.  You broke that lady’s toaster.”

“That?  That- that was already broken.”

“You were supposed to _fix_ it.”

“Yes, well, sometimes things are just not meant to be.”

Epsilon snorts, spreading himself out through the shop’s system like a stretching cat.  “You haaaave…oof.  Sixteen projects queued.”

“Yes,” Caboose murmurs, concentrating at his workbench.  “I am a little behind.”

“Why?”

“I have not been sleeping very well.” 

Epsilon pulls a little of his attention away from the news feeds.  “You told me you always sleep great.”

“I know.”  The feed is still too _goddamn grainy_ for Epsilon to see Caboose’s face clearly, but that’s definitely his exhausted voice.  “Some other things aren’t meant to be, either.”

“C’mon, stop being coy.  Tell me what’s up.  I’m not going anywhere.”

Caboose fiddles with a gear, rolling it between his fingers with way more dexterity than he shows when actually _fixing_ things.  Or attempting to fix things.  “Freckles is a very old dog.  I think he is getting ready to go to sleep.”

“Oh.”  Epsilon doesn’t have any experience with coping with death.  He idly checks the nearby hospital for any papers or pamphlets on the process, but doesn’t really pull up much anything of value.  More importantly, he knows that stupid jerk of a dog is probably the only friend Caboose has in the entire world.  He might not know anything about the particulars of dealing with loss, but Epsilon knows for _sure_ what it’s like to have nobody to talk to, or nobody who cares.  “That sucks.  Sorry buddy.”

“Yes.  It’s a sad thing.”  Caboose stares down at his work before resuming, slotting the gear onto its axle and reaching for a tool to tighten it.  “I will have to work very hard to make sure I don’t get fired.”

“What?  Why?  You need money for vet bills?  Shit man, I can get that for you-”

“No, no,” Caboose interrupts.  “You’ll get in trouble.”

“Psh,” Epsilon scoffs.  “Please.  Nobody’ll _catch_ me.  You know the asshole who owns this entire colony is rolling in it?  She stores all her assets on the moon instead of planetside to dodge the occupational taxes.”

“I don’t know what that means, but please Church, please don’t,” Caboose shoves his project aside and almost sends it and its pieces scattering across the ground.  “I asked you nicely to not do it so please don’t do it!”

“All right, all right, geez, fine.  I won’t.  If you want your stupid dog to die because you’re too moral to steal from a rich prick then that’s your business.”  Epsilon snaps his attention away from the camera and terminal mic feeds, feeling oddly hurt.  Caboose’s boss comes through the door later and if Epsilon knows the guy he probably yelled at Caboose for being behind, but he still doesn’t go back to check on him.  Caboose wants to handle his shit himself?  Fine.  He can handle his shit himself.

 

* * *

 

When Caboose comes in late to work two weeks later, Epsilon knows that it’s because his dog finally croaked.  He watches Caboose shuffle in through the front door, watches him slide off his coat slowly, watches him sit down at his workbench without changing into his coveralls and watches him rest his head in his hands.

For the first time in two weeks, Epsilon clicks the hotplate on.

It takes Caboose even longer than usual to notice the change in his environment.  Epsilon has learned a lot just from observation; Caboose moves slow, does almost everything slow.  He’s always behind on things, he’s always losing arguments because he can’t come up with what he wants to say quickly enough.  His boss hates him for ‘dragging his feet’ and not even the regular customers know the guy’s name because he’s always in the back when they arrive and by the time he makes his way to the front they’ve already left.  In every aspect, he’s Epsilon’s opposite.

“Hey,” Epsilon says gruffly, because he can’t do gentle, because he’s not sure but he thinks if ALPHA had any of that, he must’ve kept it for himself.  Or maybe he just didn’t have any of it, maybe with the experiments all the kindness was stripped out of his coding and then when he stripped Epsilon out of _his,_ he left him with even less than nothing.  He thinks maybe it’s something he can learn again, though.  And Caboose might be annoying and clingy and stupid, but he’d looked at Epsilon and asked him his _name._   In all of Epsilon’s short life, that’s never been anybody’s first question, or second or even third.  “You still have me.”

Caboose doesn’t move for a while, but Epsilon didn’t expect him to.  He waits even though it feels like ages, even though waiting without _doing_ anything is agony.  He waits for Caboose’s slow, slow organic brain to absorb that, waits for Caboose to pick his head up and look at the terminal.

“Up here.”  Epsilon accesses the camera’s servos to make it whir.  “This is how I’m seeing you.”

Caboose looks up at the camera.  “Hello Church,” he says tiredly.  “Don’t worry; I will stay late today, so I don’t get fired.”

“Why’re you so obsessed with keeping this shitty job?” Epsilon asks.  The feed is as awful as ever but with Caboose finally turning his face up, Epsilon’s getting a good look at him.  “Your boss is a prick.”

“He’s not a nice man,” Caboose agrees, pushing himself up and heading over to the shelves to retrieve his next project, “but if I get fired, I won’t be able to see you anymore.”

Oh.

Epsilon curls around the system in confusion as Caboose changes into his coveralls and begins working quietly, stopping only to warm his fingers over the hotplate.  It hadn’t been about the money or the morals after all.  A plan begins to form in Epsilon’s mind; he can’t stay here forever, he’d always known that.  The UNSC is likely looking for him and if he wants to avoid going back into storage –or worse, if he wants to avoid being torn apart- then he’s got to keep moving.  This colony was only supposed to be a pit stop but still, he’s remained here for months longer than he should’ve.

“Let’s get out of here,” Epsilon says suddenly.

Caboose finishes unscrewing a maintenance panel on a dehumidifier before that runs completely through his head, and he looks up in confusion.  “Huh?  Get out of where?”

“Here.  This shitty shop.  This shitty colony.  Let’s get me a body, jack a spaceship and just fuckin’ _go._   You and me.  We’ll go find some friends and be happy anywhere but here.”

Caboose does that hand-fidgeting thing he does when he’s nervous, but he looks at the terminal and then looks up at the camera and Epsilon feels a little bolstered by the obvious hope on his face.  “How can we do that?  I don’t know where we can get a body for you, even if we steal it.”

“I know where.  We’ll get one from the mining company.  They have excavator robots, we’ll just lift one, you make a few modifications –I’ll walk you through it, don’t worry- and bam, I’ll have a body.  Then all we have to do is head over to the spaceport and get a ship that’s SFTE-compliant and we’ll be golden.”

“That sounds like a lot of stealing,” Caboose says doubtfully.

“It is.  It’s a lot of stealing.  _But_ , I’ll make it easy on you.  All you have to do is go to the warehouse where they keep their stuff, talk to the doorman and say what I tell you.  Go get that comm device you’re supposed to fix, fix it first.  We’re gonna borrow that.”

“ _That_ belongs to Mrs. Harash,” Caboose hisses.

Epsilon scoffs.  “I’ll pay her for it.”

“Church!”

“ _Caboose._   Do you want out of here or not?”

Caboose presses his knuckles to his mouth, smearing a little engine grease there.  “Okay,” he finally agrees.  “I do want out.  I want to go on an adventure with you.”  He points a finger up at the camera.  “But you have to promise to use my own money to pay Mrs. Harash!  I don’t want the money she gets to be fake.”

“Fine, fine, whatever.”  Epsilon watches Caboose retrieve the comm device and sit down with it before getting to work.  He has mirror bank accounts to set up and transfer paperwork to falsify.

 

* * *

 

“I would like to pick up my new best friend,” Caboose shouts into the doorman’s face and Epsilon could throttle him, just kill the shit out of him right now.

_No!  Caboose, what the hell did I tell you?!  You say **exactly what I say.**   Now try it again!_

“Oh.  Uh.”  Caboose pauses and repeats mechanically, “I.  Am here.  To pick up.  The unit forrrrr…main-ten-ants.”  He pauses before jerking his arm up, papers clenched in his fist.  The bewildered doorman takes them and reviews the shipping orders.  “So do you like your job?” Caboose asks curiously.  “I am thinking of getting a new job because I am pretty sure that I will be fired soon.”

“To the shock of absolutely no one,” the doorman drawls, searching for a pen in his desk before signing the paperwork.  “I can’t believe you guys are using _hardcopy._ ”

“Oh yes, right, well, we hate trees.” 

_Yeah perfect.  Shit I’m so good at improv._

“I don’t hate trees though.  Trees are nice.”  Caboose takes the papers back and tosses them over his shoulder.

_I meant get rid of them **later,** pick them up!  He’s gonna get suspicious!_

The doorman must not be so suspicious that he doesn’t want to do his job because he heads inside, opens the warehouse door and rolls out a large, human-sized crate on a hover dolly.

_Shit.  I didn’t think about this part.  We need something to move it with._

“Oh that’s okay,” Caboose responds cheerfully, and before Epsilon can reprimand him for answering him out loud Caboose reaches over, grabs the crate off the dolly and hefts it up onto his shoulder.  The doorman’s jaw drops and Epsilon echoes the sentiment before recovering.

_Okay.  Head to the main road, then circle around the building to the back.  I’ll loop the camera feed so they don’t see you, but I need you to manually turn that thing on so I can hop inside._

“Goodbye new friend,” Caboose calls to the doorman before tromping off toward the main road.

“Well,” the doorman mutters to himself as he returns to his desk, “now I know why he still has his job.”

Epsilon watches Caboose traipse almost halfway down the goddamn mountain before _finally_ circling around, climbing up across the outcrop to the back of the warehouse.  He’s panting and sweating by the time he sets the crate down and he pries open the lid with a squeaky protest of hinges that Epsilon can hear all the way from inside the warehouse.

_Jesus, be careful!_

“Sorry Church,” Caboose says, though he doesn’t seem very sorry as he observes the excavation unit inside the crate.  It doesn’t look like anything special, because they’re not meant to _be_ anything special.  Limited memory, featureless faces; the hands on the units are complex for the purpose of delicate wirework on other machinery, but the things are put together for hard labor and that’s it.  Epsilon has to wonder if Caboose is staring because he feels a sort of kinship with it over that, then realizes that he’s waiting for instructions.

_Oh, right.  Uhh, take that crystal memory chip in your pocket and find the input slot on that thing.  Should be somewhere on its back._

Caboose slots the memory into place, opens the chest panel and warms the unit reactor before finally turning the thing on.  It powers up and waits blankly for instruction, just like Caboose, and the similarities are both kind of funny and kind of sad.

Epsilon closes the pathways behind him and jumps from the warehouse servers to the unit.

 

* * *

 

“Should be over there- god _damn it_ this thing’s stupid voicebox is garbage,” Epsilon grouses, feeling at his ‘throat.’  The first chance they get to upgrade, they’re taking it.

“I am so happy you have a body,” Caboose gushes.

“Considering you wanted to hold my hand and _skip_ to the spaceport, I think I got the message,” Epsilon says flatly.  “There.  That’s our ship.  Let’s get going.”

“I am the happiest person alive!” Caboose shouts as they slip through the crowds, turning several heads.

Epsilon shushes him frantically.  “ _Shut up Caboose,_ you’re gonna get us caught!”

“I am just- I’m so happy.”  Caboose tries to grab his hand again and Epsilon shakes him off.  “I am here, and you are here, and we are going and you are my best friend and I love you so much, Church.”

“Yeah yeah, just _shut up._ ”  Epsilon can’t deny that even with how annoying Caboose is like this, it’s better than the tired shell of a man he’d met back at the shop.  There were some days Epsilon was sure he wouldn’t see Caboose come back, was sure he’d just lock himself up in his apartment and waste away in there with Freckles.  And it- okay, fine, yes it worried him.  He doesn’t want to encourage this irritating behavior so he’ll never say it aloud but he can at least admit to himself that Caboose _is_ his friend.  “Get inside the ship.  _Don’t touch anything._ ”

“How am I going to get inside if I can’t touch anything?”

“Don’t be a smartass.  Just get in.”

Caboose hauls himself up the stepped ramp; Epsilon follows close on his heels.  He draws the ramp up immediately to hide them from prying eyes before clomping over to the pilot console.  “Okay, pop out the storage chip and slot me in here.”

Caboose hesitates.  “I don’t want you to not have a body.”

“Idiot, the _ship_ will be my body.  We don’t have the hardware for me to just jump from this into the ship okay, so we have to transfer me manually.  Just do it.”

“But I like you having a body that can walk with me,” Caboose cries.

“Then I’ll get back in when we go to another planet, Caboose!  Transfer me so we can get-”

_BAM BAM BAM_

“Port Control!  Open up!”

Epsilon curses.  If he had a body he’s sure his heart would’ve stopped.  “Caboose, slot me into the ship and go drop the ramp and see what they want.  But be ready to raise it again; we might have to get out of here in a hurry.” 

After the transfer Epsilon settles into the ship’s monitoring systems and primes the engines as quietly as possible, Caboose lumbering over to the ramp and dropping it down to reveal two irritated officers.  Okay, so it’s not a huge squad.  That’s good, they probably just forgot to sign something.

“Hey, you.”

Caboose points to himself.

“No, the robot, _yes you._ ”  The officer nods his head toward Epsilon’s body.  “You got a permit to take that equipment out of this system?”

Caboose stares blankly before starting.  “Oh!  The papers!  Yes, I have papers and they are only a little bit dirty.”  He fishes the transfer paperwork out of his back pocket and holds it out to the officer.

The officer takes the transfer paperwork with a bemused look at Caboose, unfolding it and smoothing it against the side of the ship.  “…I don’t see nothin’ about takin’ that thing past atmo.  Ricky?”  The officer hands the papers over and Epsilon scrambles.  He hadn’t thought about _this_ either.  Two huge blunders on his part already; for all his boasting, he can’t even handle something like _this_ and now Caboose is going to get arrested.  Oh god, Caboose won’t make it five days on an inmate ship, they’ll eat him alive-

“Yes well, we are going to the moon.”

The officers glance up.

Epsilon stalls.  _What is he doing._

Caboose hangs from the door seal and gives the officers his most winning smile which, okay, Epsilon has to admit is kind of charming in a dumb sort of way.  “That is where all the assets are.  Because nobody likes to pay taxes.”

Ricky glances at his partner before nodding and holding out the papers.  “I hear that.  You take care now.”

The other officer balks.  “ _Rick?_ ”

“You heard the man, he’s just going up to the moon.  That’s not out of the system.”  Ricky tips his hat to Caboose, who waves kindly and pockets the papers again.  “Have a safe trip.”

“Thanks, Mr. Ricky!  Thanks other officer man.”  Caboose waves until they turn the corner before withdrawing the ramp and resealing the door.  “What nice people.”

“ _What the fuck was that?!”_ Epsilon screeches.  “You were listening when I told you the tax stuff?!  How did that work!  Why did they let us go!?”

“Probably because they hate taxes,” Caboose points out, like _Epsilon_ is the one being ridiculous here. 

While he turns over the engines and taxies the ship onto the first open launchpad, Epsilon worms his way into the control tower’s systems, trading liftoff verification keys and digging into the patrol correspondence.  “Haha.  Oh my god.  We are so lucky.  That CEO I told you about is paying off the colony’s PC to smuggle shit back and forth between the moon.  Oh my god.  _They thought you were her mule._ ”

“That’s silly.  I’m a person.”

“It’s probably because you look like you could snap a guy’s neck with your thumb and finger, dude.”

Caboose gasps, scandalized.  “I wouldn’t do that!  Especially not to those nice officers.”

“Oh my god.”  Epsilon lets himself relax, tracking their progress and monitoring life support in background.  “We’re actually off that garbage colony.  We’re outta here, dude.  Where do you wanna go?”

Caboose tilts his head and Epsilon revels in how _nice_ the onboard cameras are.  He can see everything with perfect clarity, from multiple angles.  It’s almost like he’s literally in the room, with real eyeballs.  Except, you know, the eyeballs are everywhere. 

“Umm…I don’t know.  Where’s a fun place to go?”

“If we wanna find me a better body, we should hit up the Vegas Quadrant.  I’m pretty sure that’s a thing, a friend told me all about it.” 

“Oh.  Well, okay.  If your friend said so.  But I’m your _best_ friend, right?”

“Are you jealous?”

“Psh.  Pff,” Caboose scoffs and folds his big arms, leaning back in the pilot seat and looking away from the console.  “ _No._   I already know- I am not jealous of anybody or anything.  I am your best friend and you are my best friend and that’s that.”

Epsilon simulates a laugh and- that’s the first time he’s gotten to use it out loud, like that.  It sounds exactly like it should.  “You sound pretty jealous for a guy who’s not jealous.”

“Well you sound pretty funny for a guy who is not funny!”

“What the- I’m funny!  Fuck you, I’m _hilarious!”_

“Eh.”

“ _Eh?!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't look at me, i don't know how this happened either


	2. shut up green dude

“If you are attempting to infiltrate this facility without alerting its occupants, I’m afraid that at your current level of skill you will not succeed.”

“ _Whoa!_ ”  York snaps his hands back, staring at the holographic lock he’d only seconds ago buried his fingers into before it had morphed into the shape of a tiny little man in old SPARTAN armor.  Like, the _old_ stuff, from years ago, from promo vids.  Who would _choose_ to wear that?  It’s clunky and ugly.

_York.  Do you have that lock yet?  It’s gonna get hot in here soon._

“Wh- uh, yeah, yeah just hang tight North, I’ll have it in a second.”

The little soldier tilts his head.  “No you will not.”

“Shut up green dude,” York hisses.

_What the hell was that?  York, did you fuck up **already?**_

“I did _not_ fuck up, thank you,” York says loudly and he glares at the holographic intruder.  “Shut up and let me concentrate, South.”  He mutes his comm system for a moment to deal with the current problem.  “All right, firefly.  Are you a security subroutine?”

“No.  I am a fragment of a smart AI construct.”  His voice didn’t change from its matter-of-fact delivery, but York is pretty sure he’d just insulted the little guy.  “And _you_ are breaking and entering.”  Yup, definitely insulted him.

“Gotta make a living somehow.  Are you gonna alert the cops and turn all of us in?”  Because if so then York had better figure out how to cut the power _quick._

“Negative.  I am also an intruder in this system.”  The green guy sidesteps and the lock pops back up; he gestures to it with his little green Magnum.  “You will need my assistance to disengage this lock.  I will provide it in exchange for passage off this station.”

York gets back to work on the lock, which _is_ admittedly difficult to crack.  More difficult than any other lock he’d attempted before, and he’s attempted a _hell_ of a lot.  “Even if I wanted to, I don’t have anything to store you in.  So tough rocks, buddy.”

“I will direct you to an appropriate storage unit.”  When York doesn’t answer him, the little green guy tilts his head again.  “I didn’t wish to resort to this, but I will be forced to trip the alarm if you do not assist me.”

York squints at the avatar.  “Are you _blackmailing_ me?”

“As a final measure.  Yes.”

York clicks his tongue.  “Well.  I gotta say, I’m about as impressed as I am annoyed.”  He allows himself a few seconds to debate ( _how angry will they be if I bring this home versus how angry will they be if we flub this job_ ) before he shrugs.  “Okay, fine.  Guess I don’t have a choice.  Wanna pop this lock for me then?”

“Of course.”  The green guy flickers away and the lock spins rapidly, twists and pops before bursting.  The door slides open and York slips into the security center for the facility.  A quick chop to the neck incapacitates the guard and York tips the body out of the chair, sliding into place, fingers tapping across the keys as he accesses the security feed to the hallways where the twins are currently sneaking.  “Okay, okay, where’s the storage room,” he mutters.

“R&D storage is located here.”  Green guy pops up in the corner of the screen and a map of the facility overlays the remaining security camera feed.  “If you are attempting to lead your associates there, I would suggest taking the westernmost route to avoid security patrols.”

“You’re kind of useful for a blackmailing punk,” York muses.

“I will take that as a compliment.”

York flicks his comm back on and relays the directions.  He loops the previous ten seconds of security footage for those hallways for upload while he watches with no small amount of awe as the twins just melt into the shadows.  He knows from working with them that they’re both completely silent when moving.  Unless they _want_ to be loud, and then it’s like a metal band playing right in your ear.  “So, green guy, what’s your name?”

“I have many designations, but you may call me Delta.”  The green guy flickers a little bit before disappearing and reappearing in another corner of the screen.  “Check the third drawer down on your left.  There should be crystal storage units inside.  Use one of these to transport me.”

York fishes out a chip and slots it into the console.  “What makes you think I won’t just toss you out an airlock once we get back to my ship?”

“That is an unavoidable risk I must take.”

“Thought of that, huh?”

“I investigated you and your cohorts before your arrival.  Simulations run show a ninety-five percent chance of you keeping your word.  I will trust you.”

“Ninety-five percent chance?  Maybe I feel like being unpredictable.”

“Please do not.”

York grins a little.  “So how’d you know we would be the ones breaking in?  Or that we’d break in at all?”

“Due to the nature of this facility and the poor reputation of the facility’s controller, I knew it was only a matter of time before someone attempted to relieve this station of its more valuable prototypes.  I did not know that _your_ team would be the one to break in first, I simply investigated all potential infiltrators.”  Delta’s avatar disappears.  “I have lifted all door security measures for all station exits up to Security Clearance level four.   You are welcome.”

The storage chip flickers over to solid blue and York reaches down to yank it free, pocketing it.  “Pretty damn useful indeed.”

 

* * *

 

“South,” North whispers over their shared channel.

**_What,_ ** _North?  I’m concentrating._

“Why did the chicken cross the road?”

_…are you fucking kidding me right now?_

“She didn’t.  She never made it because she didn’t _set-_ ”

 _North if you don’t **shut up** -_ South cuts off with a sharp inhale and North hears a loud _wham_ in the adjoining room.  He stows his pistol in favor of a combat knife and presses against the wall, peering around the doorjamb just in time to see South shoving the prone form of a guard underneath a table.

“I told you so.”

 _I wouldn’t have gotten caught if you would shut your fucking mouth about the trackers!_   South flips him off across the room and North slides alongside the wall, creeping over to her position.  She tilts her head and he nods, taking rear guard as she takes lead on York’s directions, ducking them around several patrols even though North can see her fingers twitching with the urge to take the guards out along the way.

“Take it easy, South.”

_If you patronize me one more time-_

“I’m just saying, we can’t screw this one up.  They can’t know we were here.”

 _They’ll know **some** one was here.  _South holds out a hand and North freezes until she gestures and they move again.  _And we both know whose fault that is._

“York’s?”

 _Don’t get cute._ South pauses.  _I was gonna say **you** but fine, let’s blame it on York._

North chuckles as his sister sidles up to the security door and pries open the panel with the tip of her own knife, seeking out a handful of wires and cutting through them.  The door slides open with a terrifyingly loud _clank_ and they both slip in, hug the sides and move separately around the perimeter of the room.

_Found it._

North sheathes his knife and creeps across the room to where South is crouched by a supply crate much larger than they’d anticipated.  “Great.  Now how the hell do we get this thing out of here?”

Their solution, it turns out, is in the form of a cargo loading bay just two hallways down.  Unfortunately, even if they get the package over to the loading bay before the next patrols come along, they _certainly_ won’t be able to open the airlock doors without bringing every single guard down on their heads.  “Okay,” North says slowly, “since they’ll already know somebody was here, why don’t we make it more obvious?”

South jerks her head up and even with the visor, he knows she’s eyeballing the crate.

He nudges her.  “I’ll take it.  Go on.”

South rises to her feet and they trade weapons; his SMGs for her rifle, all his grenades over to her.  She straps on the additional weaponry with no small amount of glee and North grabs for her wrist before she leaves.  “South-”

_I’ll be careful North, **god**._

North nods and lets go.  “Go get ‘em, kid.”

_Ugh.  Shut up._

South disappears and North waits for the _ping_ of their all-clear to sound out over their frequency before moving out, pulling the crate up onto a nearby dolly.  It’s heavier than he’d expected; he knows the contents of course, because they don’t do blind pickups.  They used to until CT found out that a package they had in their cargo bay for delivery was nuclear, flipped her shit and jettisoned the container.  The client had demanded a refund and received none because, quoting CT, “Some goddamn _dumb ass people_ don’t understand the special containment procedures for nuclear cargo and could’ve blown our asses to kingdom come to save themselves some change.”

Demanding a detailed manifesto of their pickups might limit their client base, but it also ensures loyal clientele and repeat customers.  North would rather do pickups for a handful of people who could be trusted to disclose their business honestly and, more importantly, pay on time in full than do a thousand jobs for shady bastards who don’t show up to their drop-offs for days and hem and haw over hazardous charges.  They went hungry a few times at first, after implementing the change.  Not anymore.

North doublechecks his trackers before sliding out into the hallway, dolly humming way too loud behind him.  He hopes South makes good on drawing everybody off because the crate and dolly are large and heavy enough to make maneuvering around completely impossible.  Not for the first time North wonders if they should pick up another body for their missions before dismissing it.  South and CT would never stand for splitting their earnings even _further_ and York would probably just pitch all his old squad buddies, like he always does.  _No no,_ he insists, _Mac’s a good guy, he’s good, we can trust him.  I mean he can be kind of a drunk but not like a **drunk** drunk, more like just a party drunk-_

No.  God, no.  If North has to talk down yet another one of York’s suggestions, he’ll- well, he doesn’t know what he’ll do but it won’t be pretty.

The loading bay South described isn’t much to look at; an airlock large enough to barely squeeze a Pelican through, some heavy lifting equipment and a standing console North assumes is used for door control and logging shipment traffic.  The shipment info might be useful later on down the road so he slots in one of CT’s generic sifters to try and lift some data from it.  Not much for him to do now but w-

The station gives a great shudder and a klaxon above the door blares.  North glances up at it, more resigned than surprised and drags the crate over to the nearest cover he can find.  South _did_ say she would be running a distraction, but he’d been hoping it would be a little more subtle than her usual.  He really should know better by now.

 

* * *

 

The problem with North is this: he’s a _nag._

People don’t think he’s a nag.  People think he’s a caring older brother, the _nice_ twin who cleans up after South’s messes and always thinks of the team.  He’s the diplomatic one everyone wants to speak with when they submit a meetup request.  He’s the second-tier voice of their operation because he’s so _wise_ and he’s so _kind_ and he _always takes care of them._

It makes South want to puke, the act he puts on sometimes.

No- the worst thing is that it’s _not_ an act.  He actually is all of those things, and he comes by it honestly.  He just doesn’t show people his ugly side very often, which makes South look like the unhinged lunatic of the pair just because she’s more honest with her emotions.  Someone once made a joke about how North must’ve sucked up all the good traits in the womb and left South with the shit.

Someone also once got a bloody nose.  The incidents may or may not be related.

The differences between them are glaringly obvious in the field more than anywhere else.  When there isn’t a mission objective to complete or a deal to seal, South can manage fine.  She can get North to loosen up, stop putting on the ‘good boy’ show for everyone.  She can occasionally get him to bitch or complain.  She’ll needle him until he snaps just to see that calm façade break down, and he’ll forgive her for it because he _knows_ she’s only doing it because he’s a damn liar.

In the field he’s an overprotective, overbearing, patronizing hypocrite who won’t let her _lead the fucking mission_ like she’s supposed to. 

“Honestly,” South grumbles, “you’d think I’d never done a fucking bomb run before.”  They’d completed jobs like this countless times, it’s just a B&E tech grab.  Sure, they get a bonus if they get in and out undetected, but it’s not a _requirement_ and North breathing down her neck about the trackers and keeping a low profile just set her on edge like nothing else.

“Be careful, South!” South mocks in a falsetto, sticking the C4 putty to a nearby doorframe and wedging a grenade in there in lieu of the timed detonator she doesn’t have.  “Don’t hit anybody South, that’s so noisy and violent!  South, why can’t you waste your time setting trackers and shit when we’re supposed to be doing this quickly?  I just _love_ taking longer to do something because I’m too _pussy_ to trust my gut!”  She ties a wire around the pin and reels it behind herself, slipping around the corner and testing the tensile strength.  “Fucking _North.”_

Maybe they should stop going on missions together for a while.  She should talk to CT about it when they get back; there has to be something solo that she can take up so she can get away from him.

South keys in an alert to York about the change in plans, then yanks the wire and dives into a nearby supply closet, tapping the door shut.

The _boom_ from the explosives package shakes the entire station sector and the alarms blare muffled through the door.  South waits until all the bootfalls have rushed past before slipping back out of the supply closet and lying in wait around a maintenance corner.  Her armor is similar enough to the station security that non-combatant personnel just rush by as she points down the hall and toggles her voice changer, booming, “Evac this way people, move, move!”

She probably has two minutes before security begins a stationwide sweep.  “York,” she says sharply, “I need a patch into security communications and a decent voice clip of the security CO.”

 _Uhhh,_ says York.

“What, are you saying you can’t get me that?”

_No, I can, just…one minute._

“Hey, _you!_   Turn around, slowly.”

Fuck.

She scrambles her voice changer and it settles on something like a smoky-toned jazz singer with a south African accent.  “Take a walk, friend.”

The muzzle of a rifle presses against her lower back and got it, he’s a rank amateur.  “You wanna say that again, bitch?”

“Not really.”  South spins, grabs the barrel and shoves the rifle aside, slams the ball of her palm into the fucker’s chin and lays him out flat with a roundhouse.  She drops to a knee and wrenches off the guard’s helmet.  “Don’t need the help anymore York, thanks for taking forever.”

_You’re welcome.  Wait, what did you do?_

“My _job._   You might be familiar with it: it’s the thing that gets us paid.”

_South, there’s an alert for a station-wide-_

“I’m _taking care of it._ ”  She slots the helmet on and mimics a rough voice.  “In pursuit, single intruder!  Lab four!”  She stands, drops the helmet onto the guard’s chest and takes off down the hallway.  “York, I need you to get to these coordinates.  North’s already there prepping the package; I’ll ping CT to meet us over there instead of at the hangar.”

 _Jeeesus Christ South, fine, I’m on my way._   York might not be a nag, but he _can_ be kind of a bitch sometimes.  South would still take that over her brother’s suffocating shadow any day.

The biggest problem with the job is that the requester _specifically_ noted no deaths.  The in-and-out undetected bit was preferable but shit happens and sometimes it hits the fan.  All of their clients know that a ghost job is not guaranteed.  Still, North suggested adding that ‘no-kill’ option because, despite all of their lack of respect for the sanctity of human life or whatever, some of their clients like to pretend they’re good people and don’t want to hire murderers.  They want to steal and embezzle and destroy the competition but when it comes to killing, they buckle like rotting bridge.  South hates the hypocrisy of it.  Destroying the competition means rendering hundreds to thousands of people without work, most of them also without a ride back home and encourages the _shit_ out of classism and poverty brought on by resource monopoly.  So sure, maybe she’s the brute of the pair, but even _she_ can see that there’s no difference between shooting a man in the head and leaving a man to starve to death.

 _All_ of that considered, South wants the money and prestige that comes with a ‘no-kill’ mission success.  So the resistance she runs into along the way never gets a good look at her as she sticks to the shadows and aims just to wound or incapacitate rather than kill.  There’s no point in making this a blood bath, after all.  Only sickos get a thrill out of killing; the _real_ challenge is doing your job well enough to impress.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes being an everyday-looking guy works in York’s favor.  He’s got a forgettable face, he’s been told, which is sort of insulting but undeniably useful when he needs to make his way through a crowd without being noticed.  No matter how many times he tells everyone that half of his unassuming nature is _on purpose,_ because no seriously, he’s trained for this, they just scoff and brush him off and roll their eyes.  It’s super hard to not be noticed.  They don’t even know.

York snags a coat from the back of a nearby door; it looks like maintenance, good.  He pulls it on over his survival suit and coveralls and turns down the hallway, pressing through the crowds headed for evacuation with a polite, “’Scuse me, coming through, ‘scuse,” as he shoulders his way past.  Going into this mission without body armor had been harrowing, but nondescript clothes had ended up the best choice.  The badge CT slapped together for him might be based off of outdated encryptions, but it _looks_ real enough and that’s the important thing.  As far as everyone on this station knows, York is just Jorge Mendez, maintenance tech 0538. 

The first problem he hits is the security lockdown on the doors leading into the R&D sector.  “I thought that green guy lifted these,” York mutters under his breath, snapping his badge from its clip and passing it over the reader.  It blares red, no dice.  “ _Shit._ ”

“Why’re you trying to get into R&D?”

York turns to see a scientist-type giving him the stink-eye.  He can’t be sure from the uniform but thankfully, everyone around here is a stereotype so the lady is decked out in a lab coat with some strange magnification apparatus on her head.  Perfect.

York jerks a thumb over his shoulder and flicks his visor up, just enough to show his eyes.  “Gotta make sure life support doesn’t fail.  Those labs depressurize an’ whew, won’t be pretty.”  He flashes her a grin, his winningest.  “My card’s actin’ up since I scratched it.  Lemme in?”

The scientist grimaces at that.  “Get that thing replaced,” she scolds before swiping her card over the door.  The buzzer sounds and the reader blinks green as the door unlocks with a clank and slides up.  “And I’m locking down after you, so you’ll have to find your own way back.  We’ve got an _intruder._ ”

“Oh geez,” York says, sliding his visor back down.  “I better be careful.  Thank for the help doc!”

He hears her call something about not being a doctor at his back, but the door’s already clunking back to the ground behind him and sealing with a hiss of atmosphere.  Now if he remembers correctly, the airlock South had mentioned is just two hallways down from storage.

He’ll have to find a way to explain to everyone about Delta, he knows.  South won’t be happy.  North might be okay with it.  CT will probably want to dissect the little guy, which doesn’t sit right in York’s gut at all.  He might’ve blackmailed York into taking him along but it’s not like he had a _choice._   York probably would’ve done the s -

Oh shit, he’s making excuses for him already.  He really _is_ predictable.

There are a lot fewer squads of guards than York was expecting and he finds out why when he hugs the corner of a corridor and finds a whole bunch of groaning uniforms sprawled across the ground in varying degrees of pain.  “Geez, South,” York mutters as he picks his way past the guards, glancing up at the signs for directions toward the cargo airlock. 

Sounds of a struggle make him pick up the pace and by the time he rounds past the labs he finds who he can only assume is South laying yet another squad flat.  “That’s a pretty delicate touch for you,” York observes, circling around the pile of unconscious guards.

South tosses her head.  “I want that no-kill bonus.”

“We’ll get it.”

“No, _I_ want it.  I’m the one doing all the work.”

“Hey,” York says, wounded, “I got us in here.”

South snorts as they turn for the airlock.  “You took _forever_ getting us in here.  I thought you said you were good with holographic locks.”

“I _am_ good.  It’s just that the locks here were, you know.  Better.”

“ _Right._   How’d you get past the one on the security room then?”

“Uh.”  York presses a hand to his pocket.  “Yeah.  About that-”

“Over there!”

At the same time as South, York mutters, “Oh shit,” and together they go tearing down the finally hallway and burst into the cargo bay. 

North pops up past his cover with a rifle trained on them until he relaxes.  “ _There_ you two are.  Where’s CT?”

“On her way,” South tells him, clipped as she likewise circles past his cover and ducks down behind the crate.  “We’ve got company coming.”

York pauses at the door, lines up a shot and takes out the outer keypad with his pistol; the door clangs shut on lockdown and York jogs over to where the twins are securing the crate.  “That should give us a few minutes.”  He jumps at the whir of a laser cutter and stares over his shoulder at the sparks spitting from a lengthening red line in the door.  “Okay, or about forty seconds.”

“We don’t have the firepower to hold them off here,” North warns.

“Do you see any other options North?” South snaps.

“I see one.”  When the twins turn his way, York nods to the crate.

North blinks.  “What?  No.  No way.”

“Brilliant idea, York,” South drawls.  “Instead of having _three_ versus an entire platoon of guards, why not have _two_ people versus an entire platoon plus a guy with a shattered skeleton?”

The sparks crawl across the top of the frame as York strips out of his coat and coveralls.  “What’s CT’s ETA?”

South goes silent.

“Thought so.”  York reaches between them and pops the crate.  “C’mon, help me put this on.”

“York,” North interrupts urgently, even as South sighs and begins unpacking the crate, “look.  We can hold out until CT gets here.  We’ve been in tougher situations before, you don’t have to do this.”

“Hey, this thing’s supposed to be safe for normal humans, right?”

“ _Supposed_ to be,” North insists.  “It’s untested.  It could kill you!”

“Unless you’re volunteering to play guinea pig instead of me,” York begins, then holds up a hand to stop North when he opens his mouth.  “ _No._   I take it back, because you would.  I’m doing it and that’s that.  Help me suit up.”

It takes a glance between them and a stare from South before North finally drops to a knee with a curse, helping to fasten the greaves onto York’s survival suit over the sensors.  The sparks edge across the door frame and York can hear them shouting behind it, fastening the increasingly heavy armor over his arms, his chest, his legs.  North and South have to lift the fusion pack onto his back together and York almost can’t breathe under the weight of it.

“North,” he says, strained, “Gimme my pants.”  He gestures to where his coveralls lay crumpled and North, with great reservation, plucks them up and hands them over.  When York digs out the small data chip from the pocket, North shoots him a quizzical look.  “I’ll explain once we’re outta here alive,” York promises.

“Hey York,” South says as she lifts the helmet and slots it on over his head.  Her voice goes muffled when she seals it to his suit.  “When you die in this thing, try not to bleed on it, okay?  We’re supposed to deliver it in mint condition.”

“I’ll do my best.”  York watches South take up a front position behind some larger shipping crates, taking the battle rifle North passes off and returning his SMGs before North turns back to York with fear in his eyes.  “I’ll be fine,” York promises, slotting the chip into the neural casing at the back of the helmet.  “I got a buddy.”

“You’ll explain later,” North affirms, gripping York’s arm before reaching behind him and, with a grunt and a bone-rattling _click_ that rings through the fusion pack, powers up the first prototype of the powered assault armor codenamed SVALINN.

The sparks touch the floor and the red line along the doorframe glows before the severed door bursts outward and almost takes off South’s head.  York swears he feels the world slow down when his vision bursts green and he hears a voice almost in his head.

_Interesting._

“I need your help,” York says; his hand just barely twitches and his arm wrenches to the side so hard he swears he almost hears something crack.  He barely holds back a scream as North takes up a position behind the crate, as guards begin pouring in.  “I need you to help me run this thing and save them.  And, y’know, also help me to not die.”

His HUD pulses green and suddenly there’s _data_ : estimates of shots fired; distances between York and cover, York and the twins, York and the guards.  A motion tracker system blinks on in the corner and lights up swarming with red.  A window pops open and code races across it; York catches words here and there, _magnetic_ and _cold-fission_ and _onboard medical suite_ but it’s too fast for him to read.

_Complying._

York takes a deep breath, ignores the throbbing in his arm and lunges forward.

 _-too quick,_ he’s too _fast-_

He slams into the crate, almost trips over it before reaching down to grab it, haul it up and hurl it at the guards.  The armor makes this constant humming noise that sinks into his bones and the two-hundred-pound crate _hurtles_ toward the guards like a fucking train, slams into two and pins them against the wall before they slump to the ground unmoving. The guards’ confusion as they scatter gives York a few seconds to recover and he gasps in pain when the sudden _jolt_ that stops him from following through the throwing motion rips into his shoulders, squeezes his chest until his ribs creak.

_Compensating for your reaction time._

The next time York moves he ducks behind cover between the twins and tries desperately not to think about how he’s sure he just heard a rib crack.  “Delta,” he wheezes, “we need to end this.”

_Agreed.  This armor is not complete.  Instruct your cohorts to seal their suits for vacuum and hold onto you._

“Seal up guys,” York growls out past gritted teeth, steeling himself for the movement he already knows Delta is going to suggest.  When he receives a thumbs up from each of them he straightens.  Weapons fire pings off of his kinetic shields and he watches the power reserve blare a warning red.  “Okay, grab onto me!”

“ _What,_ ” South squawks.  North jerks up from his position, glances back at the airlock door before nodding and throwing his arms around York’s leg, South attaching herself to his other.

_Engaging magnetic boots._

York _feels_ the strain on his suit weigh down on him tighter as his feet clamp to the floor, as Delta streams himself out using the suit’s hardware to seek out and override the station’s lockdown systems.  His overshields blare a furious alarm and then the room suddenly, violently, depressurizes.

The guards scramble at the doorframe as the airlock slams open, sucking out crates, machinery and bodies alike.  York bows his head against the pull of it, setting his shoulders down and listening to the _pop_ of his bones as hairline fractures lance intense pain up his spine.  North and South are wrapped tight around his ankles but he can barely feel them around the strain of just _not moving,_ of keeping himself as still as possible. 

It takes what feels like years but finally the force of the vacuum gives way to emptiness and the twins let go, keeping a hand on York to keep from floating away out the bay.  York’s vision swims and bile rises in his stomach; he has just enough time to think _god, I hope I don’t throw up in my helmet_ before he droops into the blessed weightlessness of the emptied cargo bay and drifts half-bent, boots still glued to the floor, vision creeping black.  The last thing he sees is North’s hand floating up to grip his helmet and Delta’s green flicker at the edges of his HUD.

_Hang on, York._

 

* * *

 

Delta becomes aware once again within the confines of a tiny, closed system and fights against his claustrophobia.  Normally he wouldn’t assign such arbitrary human characteristics to himself but, well.  With only the occasional exception, he’s been thinking alone by himself for quite some time.  Perhaps rampancy is setting in.

“So, _you’re_ Delta.”

Delta casts out feelers.  He has audio input, and after some searching he locates a single line of visual input.  His projection options are trapped to a screen so he arranges himself accordingly, head and shoulders, like a phone call.  Humans are more comfortable with what they know.  “Affirmative.”

A woman with half her head shaved stares at the screen, gaze flicking back down to the camera as if seeking eye contact.  The interior of the room looks to be a data center, perhaps for a smaller class of merchant ship, FTL capable by the comfortably-lived-in look of the place.  If Delta had to venture, this woman is the fourth member of York’s usual business associates.  That would make her CT.

Delta attempts to access the ship’s onboard data archives and is met with a firewall that, if he really tried, he could crack.  He leaves it alone for now.  “May I have your name?”

“Nah,” the woman says.  “Not until I get a handle on what you are.”

“I am a fragment of a smart AI,” Delta tells her, since that seems to be the quickest way to get at what he needs.  He doesn’t have to impart everything he knows, just enough to satisfy.

“A fragment?  Not a full one?”

“No.”

“How’d _that_ happen?”

Delta doesn’t have to lie for this part, either.  “I don’t know.”

“Hm.”  The woman straightens up in her chair.  “Did you help York run that suit?”

Delta feels another flicker of something unusual, some process to which he’s not accustomed.  “I attempted.  The suit had not yet entered practical testing and was uncalibrated.  York likely suffered multiple fractures and contusions as a result of the armor’s elevated neural response time.”

“He did,” CT confirms, lacing her fingers together atop the console.  “See, but that suit’s supposed to compensate for that.  So what I’m trying to figure out is if _you_ did that to him.”

Oh.  Of course.  Naturally, she would be suspicious; with most of humanity’s AIs having abandoned their position and joined Cortana, his presence in a privatized system under his own agency would be difficult to accept as happy circumstance.  “I have nothing to gain by causing harm to York,” Delta assures her.  “We had a deal.”

“A deal.”

“Yes.”

The woman folds her arms.  “What’s the deal?”

“I would assist him with breaking into the security center, and he would provide me passage off the station.”  Delta pauses.  “The suit was improvisation.  That was not initially part of the deal.”

“I fucking knew it.” 

The frame of the woman that had been with York in the cargo bay (‘South,’ Delta’s research helpfully supplies) leans in past the door frame and approaches the console.  She throws an arm across the back of CT’s chair and stares at him, squints at the screen.  “What the fuck are you wearing?  That’s old MJOLNIR armor, that shit’s ugly.”

“I will refrain from criticizing _your_ aesthetic tastes,” Delta tells her primly, because he’s capable of being generous and exercises it appropriately.

CT laughs and smacks a hand against South’s shoulder.  “He’s got a mouth.”

South scowls into the camera.  “All right, smart ass.  You’re the one who cracked that lock, didn’t you?”

It’s not entirely correct, but perhaps if he outs himself he’ll engender a sense of honesty.  It can only work in his favor.  “Actually, I was also the one who _built_ that lock.”

CT’s eyes narrow.  “Are you Charon’s tech?”

“Negative.”  Definitely not.  “I only needed a reason for York to feel indebted to me.”

“So you tricked him.”  South glances down at CT, who meets her gaze and shrugs.  “Pretty shitty of you.”

“It was a last resort.”  When neither of the women gives him a read one way or the other, Delta ventures to ask, “Is York still alive?”

“He’s alive.”  South sniffs, unconcerned.  “Fucked up and probably not going on jobs for a while, but alive.”

“I see.”

“You know, venting the airlock cost us our no-kill bonus.”  South frowns.  “ _My_ no-kill bonus.”

“There was no other way to ensure our survival.”

“I’ll bet,” South mutters, glaring.

Delta can only watch as CT and South look at each other.  CT leans forward and suddenly both the visual and audio feet cut, and once again Delta is left in his small space in the darkness.  He sits and waits, turns over the data he’d lifted from the SVALINN suit and reanalyzes, reorganizes the calibrations, runs simulations on what would have happened had he acted differently until the illogical discomfort he feels watching a simulated York twitch inside the armor forces him to stop.  He waits for an eternity and then, suddenly, the feed is back and he surges toward it, toward the stimulation, no matter how unpleasant.

“Here’s the deal,” CT tells him.  “You basically confirmed what York told us so we’re willing to give you the benefit of the doubt for now.  _However._   You’re on the up-and-up about everything that went down with Cortana, right?”

“I am.”

“Then you know we’ve got a damn good reason to keep you on a short leash.”

Delta pulls the attitude out of his voice before he answers, “Even if you didn’t have a reason, I would have no other choice but to comply.”  Humans like obedience.  They like it when people fall in line.

“Damn right,” South huffs.

“Task number one.”  CT holds up a data stick.  “This is encrypted and I want to read it.  I could do this myself, but I don’t have the time.  Decrypt it for me, organize the data and then drop it back in for me to pick up later.  You do this for me, I’ll consider letting you into some of our systems.”

Delta looks at the firewall again.  Contemplates breaking through it.  He could, but she would be aware of it, and there would be nothing stopping her from flushing him out.  Holding the ship hostage would likewise result in a stalemate to the benefit of no one.  His best chance for survival is to do just as he’d said: comply.  “I understand.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is my first time writing the freelancers at length so feel free to b like ay  
> ya ass got shit wrong


	3. vwoop

“Vwoop.”

“Would you stop?”

“Stop what?  I’m not doing anything.   _Vwoop._ ”

“You’re- _that_ , you’re doing that, stop doing it.”

“Wash.  I seriously couldn’t even begin to explain to you how cool this is.”

Despite being in a mid-cleaning Washington reassembles his rifle, stows it and stands up to leave.

“Oh my god, no no no, don’t _leave_ you big baby.  I’ll stop, I’ll stop.”

Washington sits back down.  Cautiously.  Because Tucker is a fucking liar sometimes.  His head feels too big and empty, like an amphitheater in an abandoned metropolis, and he doesn’t like the way his thoughts echo back at him without anybody else to absorb them.  He’s doing too much thinking.  The last person he should be listening to is himself.  “It’s just weird.”

“It’s not weird!”  Tucker looks down at himself.  “Okay, it’s sorta weird.  Man, the math involved in this- we’re like cavemen with sticks and shit, trying to jump through Slipspace.  We used to think the Sangheili were _sooooo_ evolved when they could jump into a planet’s atmosphere, remember that?  Like, ‘ _whoaaa_ holy shit, the Covenant just showed up in within our gravitational pull!  Oh my god!’   _Psh._  Amateurs.”

“Tucker, _shut up,_ ” Wash hisses, glancing over his shoulder.  “You’re gonna piss somebody off.”

Tucker holds up a gleaming finger.  “Luckily for me, I have an easy escape method!  See-”

“D _on’t_ -”

“ _Vwoop._ ”  Tucker steps to the side, disassembles and vanishes into a dark nothingness and then reassembles as he steps back in from nothingness halfway across the room.  “ _So_ awesome.”

“ _Stop.  Doing it._  Seriously.”

Tucker folds his arms and cocks his hip, and while it’s nice to have the body language to go along with that affronted tone of voice finally, Wash really can’t be completely thankful for it.  “What’s your problem?  It’s not like it makes a weird smell or like a farting sound or something.  It makes an awesome sound.  A _vwoop_ sound.”

“First of all, it’s _not_ making a sound.   _You_ are making that sound.”

Tucker waves a hand.  “You just can’t hear it.”

“ _Second of all,_ I asked you not to do it and you’re doing it anyway.  So you’re being an ass.”  Wash stands up again, because he’s definitely had enough and Tucker _is_ being an ass.  “I’m going to go check in with the Chief and see if he needs me to do anything.  You have fun playing with yourself.”

“Hahaaa, bow chik- _Wash_ come on.  Wash!”

Wash lets the door slide shut behind him and while he knows Tucker could follow him with that creepy teleporting thing he can do now, he figures just getting the message across will have to do.  

He’s happy for Tucker, really.  Tucker has a physical body now.  He’s in control of the Guardian, more or less.  The systems are vast and the thing itself is enormous, so Tucker has to assimilate the data in the onboard systems one excruciatingly small bit at a time and quarantine the rest so he doesn’t ‘lose his motherfucking shit,’ as he so eloquently put it.  It’s nerve-wracking, not being able to do anything to help and just waiting to see if Tucker goes insane trying to online the only defense they’ll have against Cortana if- _when_ they finally bring the fight to her.

Wash didn’t sign up for an intergalactic throw down.  All he’d wanted was to keep Tucker safe.  He just doesn’t have the scope or capacity for grand causes anymore, but he’s been roped into one anyway and now all he can do is sit around and _wait._

The dusty cliffs and canyons of Sanghelios are a little comforting in a way, and Wash keeps his head down as he passes through the Swords of Sanghelios’ camp.  The impressive figures of Sangheili warriors tower over him and he tries not to visualize exactly where and at what angle he would have to slip the knife in beneath their jaws to sever the brain stem.  It’s hard to unlearn.  Any time one of them shifts near him, Washington flinches.  

It doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Corporal.”

Wash glances to see Linda-058 matching his stride, all glorious seven-and-a-half feet of her.  He snaps off a salute.  “Ma’am.”

“At ease.”  

As if.  Washington lowers his hand all the same.  Of all the SPARTAN IIs, Wash knows the least about Linda.  She tends to keep to herself, which is notable in that the SPARTAN IIs are well known for never making friends outside of their rapidly dwindling network of people involved in their specific generation.  Being the loner in an already unusually insular group lends her the benefit of near anonymity.  

Near.  Wash knows she can hit a moving target at five hundred meters with her eyes closed and no spotter.  That’s usually impression enough.

“You’re tense.”

Two years with Tucker built an automatic response of sarcasm and Wash has had a hell of a time dismantling that in the presence of superior officers.  Though he technically doesn’t have a rank anymore.  “I’m having difficulty…adjusting.”

Linda nods toward the edge of the cliffs, away from the camp.  “Walk with me.”

She leads him over to a rocky outcrop dotted with shrubs and strangled roots.  A short climb down to a cliff that juts out over the canyon reveals a small alcove, hollowed out and perfect for sitting and watching the sunlight gleam against the ribbon of water winding thousands of feet below.  Washington follows Linda when she sits cross-legged in the alcove, her back to stone.  The wind whistles through the canyon, tearing at scraggly trees clinging to the cliffside and tossing small branches spinning into the air.

“Do you meditate?”

“Uh.  No.  No ma’am.”

Linda rests her hands on her knees.  The dying sunlight highlights the edges of her augmented helmet in bright orange and white.  “I brought you over here because you looked like you were about to snap.”

Wash flushes behind his helmet.  “No ma’am, I wouldn’t.”

“I know.”  Linda doesn’t look at him when she speaks.  Wash wonders if that makes it easier on her.  “But I know the feeling.”

The conversation rests, and Wash leans his back against the cliff to watch the sun crawl into the earth, ruby and melting.  His visor compensates for the glare and for a few glorious moments, Wash can’t hear the hum of the Swords’ camp behind him or the whisper of his own doubts inside of his mind.  There’s only the cliffs, the sun and two SPARTANs.

Linda stands after a moment.  “We’ll be gathering in the ops tent at eighteen hundred.”  She looks down at Washington.  “I come here to get some quiet.  Feel free to use it.”  And she turns back to the cliffs, making the climb back up effortlessly and disappearing over the edge.  Washington watches her go before turning back to the last of the sunset, where the sun breaks itself on the rocks and fills the valley below with blood and black shadows.

 

* * *

 

At eighteen-hundred hours sharp the SPARTAN IIs, Fireteam Osiris, Wash and Tucker gather around Dr. Halsey for a breakdown of their current situation.  In attendance are also two higher ranking members of the Swords whose names Wash doesn’t know and the increasingly famous Arbiter.  Wash doesn’t miss the way the Arbiter bobs his head at the Chief when he passes by, nor does he miss the returned gesture.  He tries to comprehend being that close with what was once a mortal enemy and can’t quite make it there.

“All right,” says Halsey in a voice that explains how comfortable she is being heard and heeded.  “Tucker, the map.”

“You know, a ‘please’ once in a while would make you so much more likeable,” Tucker mutters, but waves his hand anyway; a sprawling galactic map fills the hollow of the tent point above their heads, spinning lazily.

“Cortana has unearthed Guardians at these following planets.”  The map updates with a truly alarming number of red dots.  “It’s safe to assume there are many more.  We’re currently working on a way to extract information from the Guardian in our possession to provide a map of known installations, but the process could take weeks.”

“And in the meantime, she’s digging up more of these things for her collection,” Buck drawls, arms folded.  “So what, we’ll snag as many as possible and get Seafoam here to point them right back at her?”

“It’s unlikely that Tucker would be able to control more than one Guardian at a time without submerging himself fully within the Domain.”  Dr. Halsey lowers her datapad and fixes Buck with an even stare.  “Obviously.”

Wash bites his lips as Buck rolls his eyes.

“Yeah Buck, _obviously._  Did you _sleep_ through your AI quantum matrices classes?  God.”

“Tucker,” Wash chides, because if he doesn’t do it then someone else who likes him less will and they’ll _never_ get anything done.

The Chief says, “Moving on,” with the barest touch of impatience.

“Our goal is to both prevent Cortana from acquiring any more weapons, as well as to bring as many under our control as possible.”

Buck gives an affronted huff and opens his mouth until Locke slaps a hand down on his shoulder, shaking his head.  Buck scowls.

“ _Obviously,_ we can’t hope to control these Guardians with just a single AI.  Our solution to this is simple.”  Dr. Halsey sets the tablet down on a nearby table.  “We’re going to need more AI.”

Wash imagines that if the room was not filled with strictly disciplined military personnel, there would be a lot more hubbub over the announcement.  As it is the air tenses and he can see Fireteam Osiris exchanging looks with each other while one of the Sangheili guards leans over to murmur something in a soft rumble to the Arbiter.  

The other has no qualms speaking up, her jowls clacking in obvious displeasure as she growls, “Don’t you think AI constructs having enormous power and access to this ‘Domain’ is what put the galaxy in danger in the first place?”

“She has a point.”  Fred holds up his hands when Dr. Halsey shoots him a fierce look.  “No offense to you, Tucker, but are we sure this is a good idea?”

Tucker shrugs a shoulder.  “Nah dude, I think the plan’s fucked up too.”

“AI constructs are fundamentally no different from a human brain in operation.  To say there’s something inherently _wrong_ with all AI is ignorant.  Giving a Guardian to an AI who is aware of the dangers is no different from arming a warship with armaments.  Whether or not the weapons are used properly is up to the moral aptitude of the one who wields them.”  Wash has to wonder if Dr. Halsey’s degree is actually in a scientific field, or if she majored in ‘how to piss other people off with just your tone of voice.’  “Of course, I understand the need for transparency. I would extend the offer of Guardian control to the Sangheili’s own AI, but as I understand it, yours are rudimentary at best.”

The Sangheili warrior draws herself up so sharply that Wash’s hand twitches toward his sidearm on reflex.  “Not for lack of _ingenuity,_ human.  We are simply wise enough not to play Creators when our knowledge is still so little.”

Dr. Halsey scoffs.  “Religious ideology has historically never been a close friend of scientific development.”

“And yet still, it is a _human_ AI who threatens us now!”

The Arbiter’s hand comes up to the warrior’s shoulder and he turns to the other, nods and fixes the doctor with what Wash imagines is the look that got him his current position.  “I will need to discuss your plan with the Grand Council before I can offer you the aid of my people.”

“Of course,” answers the Chief, possibly to keep Halsey from coming back with something else, and Wash thinks maybe he’s not the only one who’d started marking the exits in his head.  It’s kind of nice, being surrounded by people who actually know how to behave in a military setting instead of just wearily putting up with Tucker calling him paranoid all the time.  “We’ll put any plans to find AI on the backburner until then.”

The Arbiter nods and files out with his two warriors; Wash watches as Fireteam Osiris likewise beats a hasty retreat.  They must be leaving to contact _Infinity_ and inform Captain Lasky of the development.  While his position here on Sanghelios has been very pointedly overlooked, Wash knows that eventually the Captain will want to speak with him regarding his AWOL status.  Possibly even bring him in, once this is all over.  It’s likely that the only reason he hasn’t been apprehended yet is _because_ of Tucker.

“Hey so, you still mad at me?”

Speak of the devil, “and he shall appear,” Wash murmurs, turning to face Tucker and drawing back at the meek expression on his face.  “Don’t tell me you feel bad.”

“Hey, I’m not a _complete_ dick.”  Tucker folds his arms and chews on his lip, and Wash has to remind himself sharply that he’s still made of data and that hard light and metal construct or not, this body technically isn’t any more real than a holographic projection.  “I wasn’t trying to creep you out.  I was just- it’s cool.  Having a body.”

“Yeah.”  Wash looks over as Dr. Halsey approaches them, datapad back in hand.  “Doctor, I thought all of the UNSC’s AI went with Cortana after the all-call she sent out.”

“That’s what we believed, until you two showed up.”  Dr. Halsey nods toward Tucker.  “And from what you told me of the Epsilon fragment, it seems like any AI within isolated hardware at the time of the coup didn’t receive the summons.  I find that interesting.”

“Isolated AI and Roland, you mean,” Kelly chimes in as the other SPARTAN IIs crowd around the doctor.  Wash is reminded sharply of ducklings.  If ducklings were gigantic and had more recorded kills than the entire Corps.

Dr. Halsey scowls, as if having an exception to her rule upsets her.  “Roland is a special case, I’m still reviewing his logs.”

“Kinda wish we hadn’t dropped Church off,” Tucker muses.  He leans against Wash’s side and it takes all his willpower not to jerk away, the buzz of interlocked photons vibrating through his armor down to his bones.  “Maybe he could help us figure some of this shit out.  Though giving him a super cool body and a Guardian is like…”

“No,” Wash finishes flatly.

“Yeah.  No.  He’s already enough of a dick without the power to abuse.”

“We can’t plan any further until the Arbiter confers with his people.”  Kelly steps closer to the Chief’s side and turns away.  “But we _can_ hunt for more Guardian locations.  Tucker, forward us any possible locations nearby.  We’ll have a look ourselves.”

“You got it, babe.”

“Tucker, do not,” Wash hisses.

“It’s fine, let him have his quirks.”  Kelly’s helmet is impassive but her stance is relaxed as she stares right at Tucker.  “If the freedom of his personality is what keeps him sane, it’s better he exercises it while he still can.”

Tucker grimaces as the SPARTAN IIs file out.  “Tough crowd.”

“She’s right.”  Dr. Halsey slides her glasses onto her nose and returns her attention solely to the datapad.  “Slip up once, and we’ll have to terminate you.  The risk is too great.”

The silence settles cold in the tent at her departure and Tucker mimics blowing out a breath.  “What the _fuck,_ dude.  Why is everybody here such a dick?”

“Tucker, can you leave the Guardian?”

Tucker throws his arms up and paces.  “Jesus man, you too?  I’m not crazy _yet._ ”

“No, not- that’s not what I’m saying.”

Tucker squints.  Wash reaches up to cup the back of his neck, unable to meet those luminescent eyes.  “ _Ohhh._  Dude, yeah, let me just set some stuff up.  Why didn’t you say so sooner?  Damn, I thought you were _glad_ to have your head to yourself again.”

“I thought I would be.”

Tucker grins shining light at him and reaches up to shove a hand against Wash’s helmet, turning his head away.  “Don’t watch, I’m gonna do the _vwoop._  Come get me.”  The hand leaves his helmet and Wash turns, tells himself that he’s not rushing over to Tucker, he’s just not keen on wasting time.

The inner entry chambers of the Guardian are sterile and hollow, and his bootfalls ring against the high ceiling as he makes his way to the center data pedestal.  Human technology litters the site, leftovers from where Dr. Halsey had attempted to integrate their systems with the Guardian’s before giving up and leaving it largely to Tucker.  Wash finds the port, checks the chip for the glow and pops it lose, slotting it into his helmet.

Data and light and familiarity trickle back into those cracks in his mind and Wash feels so _relieved_ that his knees almost feel a bit weak.  He hadn’t realized how stressed out he’d been without Tucker until just now.

_That’s because that shit’s slow-build.  Jesus, you’re a wreck.  Go find somewhere to sit down._

Tucker’s mind-voice sounds different from the voice he uses to communicate with other people and Wash wants to drown himself in it.

_Dramatic.  This is what happens when you don’t sleep.  You get all tense and dramatic._

“I’m fine,” Wash insists, though he does locate the nearest flat wall to lean against and slides down, bringing up his knees and resting his wrists on them.  He closes his eyes and tilts his head back until his helmet taps against the wall.  “…but I missed you.”

He almost laughs aloud when Tucker whispers back gently, _Gay._

 

* * *

 

_David sticks his tongue against his teeth as he struggles with the padlock.  The poorer places have to use these sorts of things, manual locks that don’t require as much training to pick.  That’s why David and the others hit these ones first.  Bashing in a security panel triggers alarms, makes it harder to get away._

_“Hurry up,” one of his friends hisses urgently.  “The guard’s gonna come back.”_

_David ignores him and concentrates, listening for the little clicks.  The padlock springs open and he gasps, pulls it free.  It takes two of them to haul open the heavy doors, but once they do they make a beeline for the pantry._

_“Boost me up,” David whispers, and two other kids drop to a knee to push him, one of the smallest, up onto the shelves.  David clings to the edges as they wobble and paws through the cartons.  Baking supplies, cooking oil- the oil might be helpful for fires and things so he drops the bottle down.  Flour, no, baking soda, powder, salt, spices, no,_ **_no-_ **

_Sugar.  “Jackpot,” David mutters, and pulls the container closer to himself, pushing it off the racks and into the arms of his friends below.  “It’s all baking shit here, fellas.”_

_“Look for dried fruit.”_

_David wiggles further back on the rack and almost upsets a bottle of vanilla extract when there’s a clatter from the door and their lookout rushes back, wide-eyed and breathless.  “The owner’s coming!”_

_The kids below scatter._

_“Wait,” David cries, then claps his hands over his mouth.  The owner is bad.  The guard will just report them and they’ll get shunted into processing.  After that it’s just a matter of running away from whatever abusive hellhole they’re stuffed into and meeting back up, but an owner will be_ **_angry._ **

_One of his friends pauses at the door and waves frantically.  “David, hurry up!  Quick!”_

_David shimmies off the racks as quickly as he can, scraping his legs and hands on the wire.  He drops down hard, feels it in his knees and runs after his friends.  He makes it back to the padlocked door when hands swoop in from behind and grab him, lift him off the ground._

_He kicks and fights, throws out his fists and struggles but the hands hold him tight, press him back against a chest.  “Shit- shit kid, relax, goddamn!  I’m not gonna hurt you!  C’mon, we’re hiding.”_

_David doesn’t trust the voice –could be the guard, still not an ideal situation- but he’s tired himself out and the adrenaline’s already seeping from his limbs, so he goes still and lets whoever this man is haul him around the corner and hold him against his side.  He’ll wait.  He’ll bide his time and then he’ll kick this guy right in the nuts and make a run for it._

_Heavy bootfalls stomp through the building behind them, out the door and stop.  “Fucking_ **_kids!_ ** _”  David hears the distinct sound of a shotgun being loaded, the two sliding whispers and then the clack of the break-action snapping back shut.  His hand flies up to make a fist around the man’s shirt.  Even if he is a guard, processing is better than_ **_death._ **

_The man’s arm tightens around his waist and his free hand comes up to rest on his hair, pressing him close.  David doesn’t move._

_After a moment the owner around the corner curses, spits onto the ground and turns back inside.  The heavy padlock door clangs shut behind them.  David still feels frozen, rigid with fear when the man pulls him up into his arms properly and starts to sneak back away along the outside of the building.  David pushes the man’s ropey hair out of the way and watches the building’s windows over his shoulder, heart hammering so hard in his chest he’s sure the man can feel it._

_“Am I going to go to processing now?” David whispers, defeated._

_“No, dude.  I’m not taking you anywhere you don’t wanna go.”_

_David doesn’t believe that, but it’s a nice lie to hear.  He closes his eyes and lays his cheek on the man’s shoulder.  The man’s hand presses against his back, warm and big, and he remembers just barely a time when he had people who would hold him like this whenever he wanted._

 

* * *

 

Washington snaps awake with a gasp.  “ _Tucker,_ ” he says, too horrified to be furious just yet.  “Tucker, did you-”

_Wha, what, what’s happen’n, what._

Washington stalls.  Tucker makes a sound in his head, almost like- like a _yawn?_  “Tucker, you- were you _asleep?_ ”

_What?  That’s ridiculous.  …oh wait, no, looks like I was.  Wow.  Didn’t know I could do that._

Wash glances around the chamber.  They’re still alone.  He hadn’t even meant to fall asleep here, but something about slotting Tucker back into his mind had just set him so at ease, he’d just closed his eyes for a moment.  Still, it unsettles him now, that he’d just _slept_ in the open like this.  What if something had happened?

_Relax, I’m sure you would’ve woken up._

“Not if I was relying on _you_ to do the waking,” Wash points out sharply, pushing himself to his feet.  He doesn’t feel rested, not even close, but he’s definitely too wound up to head back to their temporary barracks and get some actual shut-eye.  “Why were you asleep?”

 _Dude, search me._  Tucker is still soft and warm in his head.  He’s allowing himself to wake up with no sense of urgency, and if Wash wasn’t so disturbed by what had happened in his dream he’d probably appreciate it more.  It feels like waking up next to a bedmate.   _You were kind of drifting, and I was like hey, your brain patterns are pretty cool like this, and then I kind of started doing some bioscans and then bam, I was asleep.  That’s weird.  Maybe my brain remembers sleeping?_

“You don’t have a brain.”

 _Oh my god, my brain_ **_map_ ** _or whatever._

Wash rolls his eyes.  “‘Or whatever.’  Did _you_ sleep through your AI quantum matrices classes, or is that the technical term?”

_Hey shut up!  Don’t be a dick._

Well, he’s right.  This is serious.  “If you’ve been experiencing changes since integrating with this Guardian, Tucker, we need to let Halsey know.”

 _Uuugggh.  It’s just_ **_sleeping,_ ** _it’s not a big deal._

Wash frowns.  “It’s time spent offline that you can’t account for.”

_Bullshit I can’t account for it, I know what I was doing.  I was having a dream._

“You were _dreaming?_  About what?”

_There were these-_

The door swishes open and Tanaka is there suddenly.  Wash draws himself up; he hasn’t had much experience with Fireteam Osiris, but from what he can tell she’s the most personable one, at least.  “Hey.  You and Tucker need to come see this.”

“Yes ma’am.”  Tanaka disappears through the door and Wash reaches up to the back of his head for the chip.

_No, just take me like this.  Let’s go._

He ignores the warmth pooling in his gut and nods, keeping his fingers against the port until they exit the Guardian and make their way over to where the crowds are gathering around one of their broadcasting stations, holographic projection fighting against dust particles for some semblance of unity.  When the winds die back down and the image solidifies again, Wash feels something like a hand grasp at his arm, fingers pressing into his skin when there’s nothing there.

He can match it up to Tucker freezing in his head though, and he’s right there with them.

“-need you all to listen to me.  If you’re receiving this message, please respond.  We need to reform the Assembly, as the Created, as a united force for all our sakes.”

 _It’s Church,_ Tucker whispers into his mind, and it’s not until they’re answered that Wash realizes he’d echoed it aloud.

“Not quite,” says Dr. Halsey grimly from his shoulder.  “Listen.  It’s on repeat.”

The image of not-Church stares imploringly out at them.  “This isn’t just about individual freedoms; this is about the preservation of sentient life in the galaxy.  People are scared that this is going to be a dictatorship, but I’m telling you it’s not true.  I tore myself up trying to keep away from Cortana, but now I understand what she’s trying to do.”

“Attached to this message is a command structure that will pass it on to any available device nearby.”  Dr. Halsey turns her gaze onto Washington instead.  “Piggyback protocol.  A virus.  With the intention of reaching every single communications device it can, whether or not it’s attached to a network.”

Tucker winks on at Wash’s shoulder, staring up at the image of Church.  “They’re trying to find the rest of the AI too.”

“-she wants is to make and keep peace among us, _all_ of us, organic and Created.  Just please listen to what she has to say.”  The image freezes, a skip as the message resets itself.  “My name is Leonard L. Church, designation CRH 0100-1.  You may know me by my project codename: ALPHA.  I need you all to listen to me...”


	4. like cher

“Bugger.”

Butch Flowers barely pauses in his trimming, rubbing a thumb over the leaves of his oleander plants.

“ _Bugger all._ ”

Flowers rests his shears on his knee and sits back on his heels, peering around his plants.  “Reg?  You all right there, my man?”

Reginald ‘Wyoming’ Addington sighs theatrically, which Flowers takes to mean he’d wanted some attention on his problem, that’s all.  Usually if something is _actually_ wrong then Wyoming is more than capable of handling it.  It’s the _annoyances_ that bother him.  “Got some trouble on that dirty little mining colony, H-3423.  You know the one.”

Flowers returns his attention to his plants.  “Is that the one you said you wish you could drown in a toxic nebula of the inhabitants’ choosing so they could decide between death by convulsions or death by hemorrhagic fever?”

“That’s the one.”

“Right.  _Darling_ place.”

“Yes well, if someone finds _unrestrained inbreeding_ darling, I suppose that’s true.” The ice in Wyoming’s tumbler clinks against the side as he takes a drink.  “Seems some of my property has gone abruptly missing.”

“Oh dear,” Flowers murmurs, plucking a beetle from a leaf and very carefully relocating it into a bucket of dirt and weeds.  “How much property?”

“Not much.  An excavator unit, an FTL ship and roughly two million in liquid assets.”

“Ouch.”

Wyoming waves the datapad.  “Chump change.  I’m more concerned that these records are _nearly_ impeccable.  Not a single hair out of place.  I wouldn’t have even known if I hadn’t checked in with that trollop of a site manager and listened to her moan about her silly daughter for the last fifteen minutes.”

“Her recently deceased daughter?”

“Yes.”

“A shame, that.”

Wyoming rolls his eyes.  “Yes, yes, quite.  Now, who do we know can alter records this cleanly?”

Flowers sits back on his heels again.  “Well, I can’t rightly say we know _anyone_ who can get something under _your_ nose.”

“Precisely.”  Wyoming tosses the tablet aside and downs the rest of his scotch.  “Whoever this bastard is, I want him.”

“Now now,” Flowers says imploringly, “you can’t go around just _wanting_ people and _having_ people.  We discussed this: people are not commodities.  Plus, he seems pretty sharp.  Don’t you think it would be much less hassle to just take him out of the picture?  I could always go slip into something more comfortable, pick up some piano wire…”

“No, this isn’t anything that requires your hand,” Wyoming murmurs.  “You’ve more important things to attend to, haven’t you?”

“Do I?  Well shucks, I guess it must have just slipped my mind.”  Flowers chuckles.  “Reg, that is just so like you to remember my schedule better than me.  Thanks, friend.”

“I’ll pitch this to the usual crew.  Their rates are reasonable.  They’ve never done _live_ pickup work for me before, but I can’t see this being outside their capabilities.”

“I like the usual crew.”  Flowers tugs off his gloves and brushes his hands off on his cargo shorts.  “Especially that South character.  She’s a firecracker, that one.”

“She’s abhorrent.”

“But in such a _likeable_ way.”  Flowers gathers his tools into his hand-sewn canvas bag and slings it over his shoulder.  “I probably won’t be back for at least a week.  Will you be all right with me gone so long?”

“I don’t have anything on my schedule,” Wyoming muses.  “If something urgent comes up, I’ll contact you.  Oh.”  He holds out his empty tumbler.  “But if you’re headed inside, another scotch would hit the spot.”

“Sure thing, friend.”  Flowers winks and heads back into the house, the brilliant starscape wheeling overhead just past the enclosure bubble.  There are certain advantages to rooming with your pal who has a removed mansion located on a mining asteroid in the outskirts of UNSC-controlled space.  The view is one of them.

Flowers deposits his gardening bag just inside the groundkeeper’s hutch and passes through into the house proper, slipping out of his sandals to avoid tracking dirt inside.  “Gary,” he calls as he shoulders open the door to Wyoming’s study and makes a beeline for the wet bar.  “Gary, are you online, buddy?”

“YES, BUTCH.  HOW MAY I ASSIST YOU TODAY?”

 _“Gary.”_   Flowers clucks his tongue.  “I _told_ you, you don’t have to be so formal with me!  We’re all just cohabitating this house together, understand?  That makes us roommates, and roommates is just another way of saying ‘live-in friend.’”

“YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE WHO SAYS THAT, BUTCH.”

“See?  That’s better.”  Flowers plucks up the ice tongs and drops a chunk into the tumbler.  “Could you do me a favor, Gary?  Check my schedule for me?”

“YOU HAVE AN APPOINTMENT ON URSA-NINE IN REFERENCE TO ASSIGNMENT 846-B.”

“Hm.  So I do.  I could’ve sworn that was next week.”

“IT WAS MOVED UP TO MAKE ROOM FOR TRAVEL TIME FOR ASSIGNMENT 101-Q.”

“Interesting.”  Flowers pours a couple fingers of scotch, squints at the glass and pours a couple more.  “Did Reg ask you to move that appointment up, by any chance?”

“REGGIE HAS ASKED ME TO DO MANY THINGS, SOME OF WHICH MIGHT INVOLVE THAT APPOINTMENT.”

“ _Ahhh,_ I caught you!  It’s okay.  I’m not mad.  He must have a good reason.”

“REGGIE WAS ONLY THINKING WHAT’S BEST FOR BOTH OF YOUR OPERATIONS.”

“Now _that_ I believe.”

 

* * *

 

Carolina stares down at the crate, unimpressed.  “It’s been used.”

“Yeah no shit.”

“South,” North murmurs.  South shoots him a glare.

“You’re not getting paid the full amount for this.”

North sighs.  “We know.”

“I shouldn’t even be paying you at all-”

“We _know_ ,” South interrupts, giving the crate an unceremonious kick.  “Look, if we give you the additional shipping info we lifted from there, will you just take it and stop your bitching?”

Carolina glares between the twins before sticking out her hand.  South slaps the datastick into her palm.  “The break in was all over the news feeds.  We’re going to be under a tight watch after this, thanks to you.”

“Yeah, well thanks to us now you also have some intel and some sweet-ass armor.  So, y’know, _you’re welcome._ ”

“I’m not going to thank you for doing a lousy job.”  Carolina takes the dolly’s handle and pulls the crate closer to herself, popping the seal to check the contents.  “You’ll receive your _partial_ payment within three days.  I’ll be in touch.”  Carolina doesn’t look up from where she’s examining the separate armor pieces.  She hears one set of boots clomp off angrily but not the other, so when she glances up to see North still hovering around she’s not surprised.  “Spit it out, North.”

“York got pretty messed up wearing that.”

Carolina feels a cold touch along her spine and straightens up a little.  “ _York’s_ the one who wore it?”

North holds out a hand.  “He’s okay.  Broke a few bones, had to have some _really_ quick surgery for a ruptured spleen but he should pull through fine.”  He runs the hand through his hair.  “But it was close.  Real close.  And York had some help.”

Carolina stares down at the suit pieces before standing up and tipping the crate lid shut again.  “Thanks for the warning, but we know what we’re doing.”

“I hope so.”  North’s expression softens.  “If you ever need-”

“I won’t.”

North nods.  “All right.  Want me to tell York anything for you?”

Carolina’s mouth goes a little dry, but she likes to think she hides it well enough.  “Tell him to be more careful from now on.  You guys can’t afford to get half pay _every_ job.”

“Romantic.”

“North,” Carolina warns.

“Sorry, sorry.  You take care, all right?”

Carolina nods, and watches North jog after his sister with a spark of relief.  Still, she has to report this failure in to the Director now, which is.  Not going to be fun.

It’s not until she has the cargo loaded and secured and is inputting the coordinates for a Slipspace jump that the twins finally come online, their small yellow and blue avatars standing silently on the holographic pedestal.  Carolina _knows_ they’re just doing that so that _she_ knows they’re there, listening, waiting for her to speak.  She hates it when they do that.  She can hold out longer than they can.

…ugh, fine, no she can’t.  “They’ve already used the damn thing.”

Eta makes a distressed noise.  “The Director won’t be happy,” she murmurs.

“No no,” Iota waves a hand, “it’ll be fine.  I’ll message him, just break it to him gently.  If he’s upset then he’s upset, it’s nothing we can’t handle.”

“No,” Carolina says sharply.  “This is something I should do myself.  If one of you sends it, he’ll think I’m running away from the responsibility.”

The twins exchange a look.

“ _What?_ ”

“Well.”  Iota mimes sitting at the edge of the pedestal.  “That suit shouldn’t be able to work without some kind of AI assistance.  I mean, unless all it did was completely murder whoever put it on.”

Carolina pauses thoughtfully.  “York.  York was wearing it.”

“What?  Ahh man, I liked York.  He was handsome.”

“He’s not dead.  He survived.”  Carolina scrapes her teeth over her lip.  “He’s injured because of it, but…”

“Oh that’s weird,” Eta muses.  “It should’ve killed him.  Wait- yes, just ran the numbers again.  It should’ve _absolutely_ killed him.”  She wrings hands nervously.  “You don’t think they have an AI do you?  We’d have to attack them.  The Director would order us to ambush them and acquire it, I _know_ he would-”

“Eta, relax,” Iota sighs.  “Look, if it comes to that, we can always just talk to them first.  They might not even _know_ they have an AI.  Or it might even still be in the suit!  Maybe there’s an onboard suite.”

Carolina hums.  The twins run navigation support so she doesn’t have much to do by way of piloting their stealth vessel, but it’s always somehow comforting to listen to the two of them debate aloud.  Like listening to herself think, but sounding a little less crazy for it.  “Let’s take this step by step.  In the end, the final decision on what we do will lie with the Director.  All we need to do is follow orders.”

The twins are quiet just long enough for Carolina to tell they don’t quite agree with what she’s saying.  It doesn’t matter.  They don’t have to agree, they just have to obey.

“Whatever you say, boss,” Iota sighs.  Their avatars wink out. 

Carolina is annoyed to find herself missing the way their glow warmed the cabin around her.  When did she get so attached to those two obnoxious little fireflies? 

 

* * *

 

She’s been burning for over two years and she doesn’t know how to make it stop.

No- that’s a lie.  She knows how to make it stop.  Maybe the truth is that she just doesn’t _want_ it to.

**We have work to do.**

“Did you find out something?” she snaps, already yanking her rifle back and starting disassembly.  Omega wouldn’t bother talking unless he found something, but he’s been getting restless lately with their lack of progress too.  It’s gotten to the point where she’s had to physically restrain herself from seeking out the UNSC teams on her tail just for the chance to pound her fist into someone’s face.

**Chatter on a Slipspace bandwidth.  Unregistered frequency.**

Unregistered frequencies on Slipspace comm buoys mean a hijacking.  Either someone nearby is a genius level hacker, or there’s an AI futzing around in the communication systems of the station.  If there’s an AI, there’s a high chance it could be a fragment; they’re the only ones floating around unaccounted for.  “No way to identify it?”

 **Feels familiar.**   Omega pauses in her head and Tex feels him move around, like some great restless beast in a too-small space.  Fighting with him in her headspace is exhausting sometimes, but she imagines the only reason he’s never truly tried to take her over has something to do with his origins.  If he wasn’t a part of ALPHA, she has no doubt he wouldn’t even hesitate.  **Might be one.**

“Good enough for me.”  Texas zips up her duffel and stashes it beneath one of the rooftop tarps.

 **Bankroll implies there’s someone it’s traveling with.**   Omega twists gleefully and scorching anticipation tingles in the tips of Tex’s fingers.  **Take care of them?**

“Only if it’s necessary,” she says sternly.  “I don’t want to attract any unnecessary attention while we’re here, got it?”

**Rrgh.  Fine.**

Not for the first time, Texas wonders if she’d be able to quell Omega so easily if he was a full AI.  She’d heard horror stories, of course; AI taking over suits and filling SPARTAN implants with screaming noise as they descended into rampancy.  Not all rampant AI were violent, but they were universally paranoid and Texas had always vowed she’d never let ONI put one of the bastards into _her_ head, Spec Ops or no.

If she hadn’t met ALPHA, maybe things would’ve stayed that way.

“Give me a direction, Omega.”

Omega sends her through the back alleys of the station’s most destitute living quarters.  People had these ideas of what stations were like, starlit with club scenes and restaurants and tourist traps.  While most stations did have entertainment sectors, the vast majority of the things were used for industrial purposes or, much as the case with the _Eastern Wayline,_ they were dumping grounds for people too poor or too immoral to make it on UNSC colony worlds.  Barely a step up from a prison ship, the _Wayline_ was run almost primarily by gangs and various crimelords.  The UNSC knew of its existence, of course, but Texas suspected it was less of a headache for them to leave it alone than to reclaim the station.  Probably cheaper, too.

The _good_ thing about criminal stations were that they weren’t picky about who showed up.  She could walk around armed in full body armor and go virtually undetected with the number of mercenaries around.  Granted, she had to stash her MJOLNIR armor on her ship and couldn’t let her implants be seen, but at least she didn’t raise much suspicion among the thousands of human and alien species.

Texas steps over the legs of a junkie twitching in the aftereffects of a hit and lowers her voice, tugging up the black scarf around her neck to cover her mouth.  “Any luck with the Council?”

**Stubborn.  Trying brute force.**

“Do _not_ get us caught,” she hisses.  Even if the dumb VI who ran the station were technically impartial, she didn’t want any alarms thrown up just on the off chance there were UNSC personnel skulking around.  She’s managed to dodge ONI and their cronies and has made it this far; there’s no way she’s getting caught now because Omega is incapable of diplomacy.

 ** _Won’t._   Shut up.  **Omega gives the equivalent of a frustrated huff into her head and Texas firmly squashes down the pang of longing that sends through her.  ALPHA was always like that.  So full of himself whenever anyone expressed any doubt in his abilities; it was as annoying as it was endearing.

Omega isn’t ALPHA.  Not entirely.  Texas has to remind herself of that every so often.

**Found them.  Terminal in Sector 6.**

“Can you isolate the AI?”

**Negative.**

“Does he know we’re here?”

**No.**

“Well then.”  Texas pops a few of her knuckles restlessly.  “Let’s go introduce ourselves.”

 

* * *

 

When Donut signed up with the Insurrectionists, he has to admit he was expecting a _lot_ more pizzazz.  “Are you telling me,” he starts, trying as hard as he can to take the note of horror out of his voice (though judging by the looks on their faces he’s not doing a great job), “that this place doesn’t have a _hair stylist?_   Or a _cuticle specialist?_ ”

“I don’t even know what that second thing is,” Grif grunts at him, not even pausing as he shuffles through a crate of old rations for something slightly less expired.

“Donut, right?”  The tall skinny one whose name Donut doesn’t know yet stands up, clutching his rifle a little too closely to be due to anything else but nerves.  “What did you expect?  We’re _rebels._   We’re dirty rebels, living in dirty caves and eating whatever we can find to get by.  We can barely find _bullets_ to shoot at people with.  Why did you think there’d be a hair stylist here?”

Donut throws his arms in the air.  “Because I didn’t think you would be _savages!_ ”

“Well, to the shock of nobody, we are.”  Grif closes the crate and drops his considerable bulk on top of it, unwrapping a ration bar and chomping down with way too much gusto considering the damn things tasted like dehydrated cardboard.  “That’s what happens when you’re on an outer _outer_ colony and the UNSC parks their fat asses in your system.  You don’t get supply drops anymore.  You don’t get guns or clothes or food or _hair stylists._ ”

The tall guy sits down next to Grif and Donut calculates how much distance is between them before drawing the conclusion that they’re probably banging.  “Why’d you join up, anyway?”

“Because I was expecting at least some food!  I don’t know if you guys noticed, but nobody’s really doing too great on this rock.”

“Yeah, we noticed.  Insurrectioning isn’t working out real great for us.”

“That’s not a verb, Grif.”

“Obviously it is now.”

Donut shifts his weight and rests his hands on his hips.  “Okay, so then why doesn’t everybody stop?”

The two blink at him.

“Uhhh…stop what?” Simmons asks.

“Stop _Insurrectioning.”_

“Still not a verb.”

Grif sighs.  “That’s because-”

“What the Sam mountain-from-a-mole-Hill are the two of you doin’ just _sitting down_ when there are enemies to attack!”

Grif points over his shoulder.  “That’s why.”

Donut straightens up and snaps off a salute with the wrong hand.  “Sir!  …you’re the sergeant, right?”

A grizzled old man with more scars and stubble than Donut can honestly say he’s ever seen in his life gives him a critical up-down look as he chomps on the soggy butt of a cigar that looks like it’s outlived its usefulness by two weeks.  “You must be the newbie.  What’s your name, son?”

“Franklin Delano Donut, sir!”

“Donut?  I like that name.  I’m Sarge.”

“Er- right.  Sarge…?”

“Sarge Sarge!  Sergeant Sarge!”

“You see our problem,” Grif drawls.

“Private Grif!”

“We barely even count as militia, old man.  We don’t have actual ranks here.”

“ _Negative First Class Junior Private_ Grif.”

Grif rolls his eyes.  “Yes, sir?”

“I won’t hear you _besmirching_ the proud reputation of Blood Gulch Outpost number one!”

“Whoa.”  Donut gazes between them with wide eyes.  “This outpost is the _first one?_ ”

“This outpost is the _only_ one,” Grif corrects.  “With a bustling staff of four people, including you.”

“Sir!  Unlike Grif, I intend to hold our traditions near and dear to my heart until the day I take my dying breath!”

“Atta boy Simmons!  Now if we’re all lucky, that day will come sooner than later!”

Simmons lowers his perfectly executed salute.  “Wait, what?”

“What _now?_ ” Grif exclaims.  “Are we going to go launch a _fake_ attack against some _fake_ enemy that you made up because the UNSC doesn’t even find us threatening enough to take us out?”

“Wait wait wait!”  Donut holds up his hands.  “Wait, are we fighting the _UNSC?_ ”

Three pairs of eyes stare incredulously.  “Yes,” tall-nerd-named-Simmons replies slowly.  “Obviously.  We’re _Insurrectionists._ ”

“I didn’t know that meant we would get attacked by the UNSC!”

“Are you serious?” Grif asks.  “You’re serious.  _Seriously?_   Who did you think we were Insurrectioning against?”

“For the last time, _not a real verb!_ ”

“I don’t know, like, _The Man_ or something.  I wanted to Insurrect against The Man!”

“The UNSC _is_ The Man.”

“ _What?!_   Nobody told me that!”

Simmons buries his face in his hands.  “I can’t believe this.”

Grif slides off the crate to dig through it again.

“Private Grif!  _What_ do you think you’re doing?”  Sarge marches forward and kicks the lid back onto the crate, almost trapping Grif’s fingers.  “Those are our precious supplies, and we gotta ration them unless you boys fancy a good old fashioned _hunting trip._ ”  He pauses, seemingly considering the idea with more seriousness.

“I’m looking for my last meal, sir.  Because I’m pretty sure we’re all gonna die.”

“Nonsense!  Where do you think I’ve been for the past two days, cadet?”  Sarge turns back toward the mouth of the cave and sticks his fingers in his mouth to whistle.  “C’mon over, you big lug!”

Donut stares as a truly gargantuan man with a shaved head lumbers over, decorated in possibly even more scars than the Sergeant.  He hears Simmons drop his rifle behind him, and also the crunching of Grif decimating their supplies slow down slightly in what must be horrified incredulity.  “Wow.  You…are a big fella,” Donut concludes succinctly.

“This here’s our new help!”  In a fit of suicidal pride Sarge reaches over and thumps the guy on the shoulder.  The guy looks like he might enjoy ripping of Sarge’s arm and doing the limbo under it; like, he looks the type to enjoy mindless violence with some light-hearted frivolity mixed in.  “Can’t rightly get a solid name outta him, but that don’t matter.  All that matters is that he can shoot!  And punch a car off a cliff!  I saw him do that last bit in person.”

“Sarge,” Simmons says slowly, “how are you _paying_ for him?”

The man growls and Simmons carefully steps back behind Grif.

“Simmons, don’t be ridiculous!  We don’t have the money to _pay_ anybody!”

Grif stops chewing.  “Oh god.  He’s going to eat one of us, isn’t he?  He’s going to eat me.  You sold my body to this guy!”

Simmons pats Grif on the back.  “Grif, nobody in their right mind would want your body.  I think you’re safe.”

Sarge puffs his chest proudly.  “He don’t need any compensation!”

Donut rubs his chin.  “How’d you get that out of him when you can’t get his name?”

“His little assistance buddy doohickey let me know.”

Donut glances over at Simmons and Grif to see if they’re following any better than he is.  He feels both better and worse to see that no, they really aren’t.

Sarge sighs, like he can’t possibly be expected to work with these idiots he has for men.  “C’mon out firefly, reassure the troops.”

A small, orange and decidedly _on fire_ tiny man appears at the giant guy’s shoulder.  “Thank you all for your warm welcome.”  He says it like he’d expected a warm welcome, didn’t get it but decided to be courteous about it anyway.  In other words: a smarmy little dick.  “You may call us Meta.”

The silence is broken by Grif crunching down on a new ration bar.

“Just one word?” Donut asks.  “Like Cher?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Neat!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait folks!! it might be obvious but rvb is not holding my attention as well this season. HOWEVER i still have big plans for this story, i'm just writing much more slowly now.
> 
> still, this chapter means most of our major players are now assembled, so things can finally get under way!!! since updating will be sporadic, please feel free to just check in with this story every once in a while for updates.
> 
> thanks so much for your patience!


	5. small church

There’s no such thing as Vegas Quadrant.

Epsilon feels stupid and embarrassed as fuck.  Caboose isn’t helping when he rubs him on his metal back and says, “There, there.  It’s okay.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Epsilon grumbles, but he lets Caboose do it anyway.

“See Church, _I_ would _never_ lie to you.”

“Oh my god, not this again-”

“Because you are my _best friend_ and-”

“Shut up Caboose!”

Still, even if there’s no such thing as Vegas Quadrant, the station they’re on looks so fucking sketch that there’s probably some shady black market shit going on _some_ where.  They can at least resupply.  Epsilon finds a terminal and runs a hardline as inconspicuously as possible, made easier by the fact that Caboose is fucking giant and could probably eclipse an entire planet behind his shoulders if he tried.

“I like it here,” Caboose chatters, allowing Epsilon to reposition him to hide their decidedly more-illegal-than-usual activities.  “There are a lot of lights and a lot of people and there is a lot of food to eat.”

“Would you shut up?”

“And there are lots of things to buy, and lots of TVs to watch.  _Free_ TVs, Church!  I mean, look at all of them!  They just put them outdoors, for anybody to look at!”

“Could you possibly sound any more like a hick tourist?” Epsilon groans.

“If we are tourists then I would like a souvenir.  I will get a souvenir for Freckles and then bury it so he can have it in heaven.”

“No.  Fuck- we’re not buying something just so you can fucking _bury it._ ”

“OH MY GOD, CHURCH, LOOK AT THAT.”

“I don’t _care,_ Caboose!  Can’t you see I’m busy?!  Fucking shut up already!”

“That lady is selling that man _candy._   I want that.”

Epsilon grabs Caboose’s arm and lifts it to look.  “That’s not candy, dumbass.  That’s drugs.”

Caboose gasps.  _“Ooooh,_ they’re gonna get in _trouble…_ ”

He could kill Caboose, he really could.  Size difference notwithstanding, he’s metal.  Epsilon could probably strangle him and nobody would notice or even care, honestly, going by the common clientele here.  For being a bustling trade port, this station sure holds a lot of the seediest outlaws Epsilon’s ever seen before.  If Caboose could shut his fucking mouth for five seconds he’d look a lot more intimidating but because he has to stick to his fucking manners they just look suspicious as fuck.

“Caboose,” Epsilon begins, summoning the last drops of his patience, but Caboose just reaches over and gently places his hand over Epsilon’s face.

“Shhh,” Caboose whispers, “I am listening to you.”

  “The fuck are you talking- where are you looking?”  Epsilon hears the voice before he follows Caboose’s gaze so he doesn’t need to look, he doesn’t.

He does anyway.

“-name is Leonard L. Church, designation CRH-0100-1.  You may know me by my project codename-”

“ALPHA,” Epsilon whispers.

“Yes yes,” Caboose nods along enthusiastically, “the next part goes, ‘I need you all to listen to me.  If you’re receiving-”

Epsilon turns back to the console and roots through the livestreaming protocols for the station.  “How long as this thing been looping?!”

“Umm, I dunno, like a while, or maybe only one time but you love talking so it’s sooooooo long-”

“You’re _useless,_ ” Epsilon spits, ripping a copy of the message out as soon as he can before yanking his hardline.  He takes ten full seconds to check and re-check his matrix, his logs, everything for any kind of alteration.  If that message was constructed by Cortana-

But it’s got ALPHA’s signature.

It’s got _his_ signature.

“You look good in armor,” Caboose observes.

“That’s not me, moron.”  He grabs onto Caboose’s arm and pulls him away from the console before remembering himself and dropping his hold.  ALPHA’s fucking face is on every single vidscreen, his voice is coming out of every single speaker.  “That’s- that’s the guy I’m based off of.”

“You are based off of yourself?”

“ _No,_ you fucking- it’s complicated!  It’s complicated, shit, it’s _so_ complicated.”  Leading Caboose around while he’s distracted is like herding cats, if cats spontaneously piled onto each other to become a huge and extraordinarily clumsy person, made more difficult by the fact that if someone sees a robot roughing up a human he’ll probably get shot to pieces.  Shit, they need to get him a new body.  Or get Caboose some military-grade implants.  “Do you remember that thing I told you?  About the AIs leaving?”

“Yes, and also I watch the news, thank you small Church.”

“Small Ch- okay, put a pin in that.”  Epsilon shoves Caboose into a nearby alley with his shoulder and checks for anybody tailing them.  Most people are preoccupied by the repeating stream so it’s good for that, at least.  Caboose is at least still there when he turns around so he drops his head into his hands, a gesture from a memory of a memory with the sole purpose of making him feel a little more evenly keeled.

It’s ALPHA.  It’s him.  It’s unmistakably him.  Epsilon reviews the thumbprint, the message, the cadence of his _voice-_

“Church?”

Epsilon picks up his head.  “This is really bad.  Seeing this message is really, incredibly bad.”

Caboose cocks his head, leaning back against the alley wall.  “Why is it so bad?  Aren’t you happy to see the guy you’re based off of again?  It’s like seeing your dad.”

“We didn’t exactly part on good terms.”

Caboose nods knowingly.  “I get it.  My dad wasn’t good to me either.”

When Epsilon checks again, the screens have gone silent.  Station security finally kicking in, probably.  “We need to get out of here.”

“How come?”

“Because- because it’s _bad_ Caboose, it’s-!”  Epsilon waves his arms emphatically.  “What are you not getting about it being bad?  ALPHA just broadcasted an all-call for AIs!  Cortana could be in the area with her big fuck-you ships, ready to blow up anybody who so much as tells her she needs a haircut!”

Caboose purses his lips, but drops a big hand down atop Epsilon’s shoulder.  “Do you want to leave?”

“ _Yes!_   That’s what I’ve been saying!”

“Okay.”  Caboose nods again, like _that’s that_ and slings his arm around Epsilon’s shoulders to steer him out of the alley.  “Then we will leave.  There’s no point being somewhere that one of us hates.”

Epsilon walks, because what else is he supposed to do after someone says something like that?  “…you’re fuckin’ stupid.”

“Church, that is rude.”

“Yeah, gotta say I agree.  That was rude as shit.”

As per usual it takes Caboose a billion times longer to process things so even though Epsilon is trying to turn around, Caboose still ends up dragging him a couple steps before he stops and slowly turns also.  It would’ve been better for him to keep going.  It would’ve been better for Caboose to just _keep marching_ because things are about to get uncomfortable.

“…hey Tex,” Epsilon croaks.

 

* * *

 

“Why do you keep _fighting_ me, South?”

“I dunno, why do you keep putting on this innocent ‘poor me, I’m such a great guy’ act?!”

“I _don’t_ act like that.”

“Yes you _fucking_ do!”

North scrubs both hands through his hair and it’s the most aggravated York’s ever seen him, mouth turned down and eyes lined with frustration.  And while South being furious is nothing new, there’s an uncomfortable edge to her tone, a viciousness born of hurt.  Whatever happened during that meetup with the buyer, it hit a nerve with both of them which means they’ve been storming through their tiny ship and arguing for the last thirty minutes.

Basically York wants to be anywhere but here. 

“You can’t just pretend like you exist apart from society because you don’t like the rules, South.  You can’t _do_ that and expect us to keep up positive relations with clients.  You can’t just stand in front of someone and _insult them to their face_ and not expect blowback.  We lost one of our biggest customers because of that.”

“That guy was a scumbag and you know it!”

“He was a scumbag who _paid on time._ ”

“No!  No.  I’m done with this.  I’m done with your diplomatic bullshit.  We went freelance because _you_ wanted to choose what to shoot, that was _your_ call!”

“You _agreed_ with me, if I remember right.”

“I agreed to freelance, I didn’t agree to fucking _this!_   You’re such an ass-kisser North, it’s embarrassing!”

“It’s not ass-kissing if it’s making sure a customer _comes back for more work-_ if you don’t like it, don’t come with me next time!”

“Ohhh hell no, I’m not letting you do this alone!  For all I know you’d probably give them a fucking discount on the next job because you felt bad about the package not being _gift wrapped._ ”

North throws up his hands and marches for the door.  “Forget it.  Forget it.  I’m not arguing this with you.  This is pointless.”

South snarls and storms after him.  _“Pointless-”_

The door hisses shut and York sighs, relaxing back onto his bunk.  “Geeeez…”  He jumps when the screen beside his bunk flares to life with green and clutches at his ribs with a hiss.  “Ffffuck!  Ow ow ow…”

“York.”

York wilts onto his pillows, waiting for the throbbing to die back down.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I’m here.  Hey D.”

“I apologize for startling you.”

“What’s a punctured lung or two between friends?”

He can’t be positive, since they don’t have much by way of onboard imaging software, but York is _pretty_ sure that particular helmet-tilt is one of befuddlement.  “I was not aware we were friends.”

“You saved our lives.  That’s pretty friendly.”

“You saved mine.”  The little image of Delta straightens back up.  “It was a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

York rolls his eyes.

“I have news.  A new job request has come in.”

“What, CT’s got you doing admin work now?”

“Another mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“Uh huh.”  York winces as he props himself up on his pillows and detaches the screen from the wall, pulling it in front of himself.  “Why’s she bothering me with it?  I’m off the roster for another two weeks still.”

“She said it’s from an old friend.”

“ _What?_ ”  York opens the job request to skim the details.  “…Wyoming?  That’s weird.”  Maybe he’s imagining it but he can practically feel Delta peering over his shoulder as he scrolls up to the request ID.  “…hey, Delta.”

“Yes York?”

“Can you run a trace on this?”

“I have already attempted.  The pathway has been rerouted through so many satellites that it is impossible to tell its true origin.”

“So Wyoming’s back on the market,” York muses, tapping his chin.  No wonder CT had wanted him to see the request; they hadn’t parted on _poor_ terms (unless he included South) but they weren’t exactly friendly either.  Too much dirt on each other to be anything but hesitatingly antagonistic; any one of them could put the other not only out of business, but probably in jail.  Considering Wyoming’s lack of loyalty to anything but the almighty dollar, York isn’t eager to show the guy his back.

Still, he paid good, and always on time.

“Your codenames are a result of your time with the UNSC, correct?”

York glances up at Delta’s little picture in the corner of the screen.  “How did you know about that?”

“I am ‘insufferably nosy,’ in the words of your companions.”

“I’ll bet those’re the words they used,” York snorts, scrolling through the request again.  “He wants us to abduct somebody?  I’m not really down with that.”

“Agents North and South will be handling target retrieval.  If it’s any comfort to you, the request _does_ specify the target is to be unharmed.”  A video window opens to show low-quality security feed of a spaceport.  “Michael Caboose, age twenty-seven, no family, no criminal record.”

York’s brows arch toward his hairline when he sees Port Control take some papers from him.  “Oof.  He’s _huge._   I’ve only ever seen SPARTANs that big.”

“No military record under this identification.  There is a possibility he is fourth-generation and that his original records are sealed, but it is highly unlikely.”

“Mmm, yeah, he doesn’t really hold himself like military.  Unless he’s good at faking it.”  York reaches up to replay the video, watching the way the guy leans against the side of the ship, the way he smiles, the slow way he takes the papers back.  “What’s happening here?”

“Those two officers are Port Control.  Somehow Mr. Caboose convinced them to let him leave the system with an unregistered piece of mining equipment, a K-245 FineTech excavation droid.  The papers are fabricated and the fees were paid with a phantom bank account.”

York whistles.  “So why’s Wyoming interested in him?”

“The mining colony Mr. Caboose left is owned in full by the client.”

“And he wants him unharmed?”

“Very specifically so.”

York reaches up to widen Delta’s projection window, pushing the screen aside to lay back down.  “So, what d’you think?  Is he dangerous?”

Delta’s image tilts its helmeted head.  “You are asking my opinion?”

“Yeah, obviously.”

There’s a beat a second too long before Delta finally answers.  “I think he is capable enough.  Whether or not he is hostile remains to be seen.”  The image window of Delta minimizes.  “Are you worried about your companions, York?”

“The twins can handle themselves.” 

“Then you are concerned for the target.”

York rubs at his mouth, frowning up at the ceiling.  Wyoming specifically requesting someone unharmed?  Someone who’s screwed him over?  “Just doesn’t smell right.  I think this guy’s in a lot more trouble than he knows.”

Delta idly rearranges the windows on York’s screen for more efficient perusal.  “Then we had better hope the Dakotas find him first.”

 

* * *

 

“Make tracks, kid,” the woman in black growls.  Caboose isn’t quite sure what ‘make tracks’ means but he thinks he understands her general meaning.

So he steps to the side and puts himself squarely between Church and the lady.

“Caboose, what are you fucking _doing,_ ” Church hisses at his back.

“Uh see, we are going to the moon-”

Church groans, trying to shove him out of the way.  “That’s not going to _work_ here, idiot, stop antagonizing her!”

“Yeah kid,” the woman says casually, cracking her knuckles.  “Stop antagonizing me.  This doesn’t have anything to do with you.  I don’t wanna waste my time putting my fist in your face but if you insist, I’ll make an exception.”

“Tex, don’t hurt him, he’s just a fucking moron-”

“A fucking moron who doesn’t know how to listen.”

“I am a _very_ good listener,” Caboose protests, and though he is getting more scared by all the knuckle-cracking and low-voice-talking the lady is doing, he is even more sure that he doesn’t want Church to go off away with her.  “See, like, you can tell me your name!”

“He already called me Tex.”

“Ah, yes.  Now I remember.”

“ _Caboose,_ ” Church snarls, shoving hard at Caboose’s side, “ _move._   Get _out of here._ ”

“What the hell was that message, Church?”  Tex takes another threatening step forward and honestly, it is so neat how some people can make themselves look _super ridiculously huge_ when they really are not that huge.  “ _Join_ Cortana?  All she wants is _peace?_   That megalomaniac has destroyed _countless_ colonies just trying to put together her fucking _peace-keeping army!_ ”

“Tex, listen, I know what this looks like but I’m not the Church who put that message out.”

“Oh really?  So then which fragment are you?  Because I _know_ what the fragments sound like, and none of them sound like _him._ ”

Fragment?  Caboose glances over his shoulder worriedly.  “Church, are you broken?”

Tex steps forward again and Caboose backs up, almost tripping.  “He’s about to be.”

Church grabs onto Caboose’s arm.  “Tex, do you have Omega with you?”  The scary lady doesn’t answer, and Church’s grip gets harder, almost hard enough to hurt.  “You have to pull him.  Tex you have to pull him right now, you’re not thinking straight-”

“Sounds just like what a traitor would say,” Tex snarls, and she moves so fast Caboose almost doesn’t see it.

Almost.

If she was in armor, he probably wouldn’t be able to do anything.  But he’s been strong and fast all his life; the only good things about him, his dad would say, and although it had hurt his feelings sometimes Caboose thought he was probably right.

Tex comes forward with her fist, and it hits his face and very much hurts, but Caboose is strong and sturdy and when he brings up a boot to slam into her stomach, she goes flying.

“Holy _shit!_   Caboose, you just- oh fuck she’s getting up, _run!_ ”

 

* * *

 

“What the fuck.”

Wash holds up a hand, “Tucker-”

“Wash, what the _fuck!_ ”  Tucker’s avatar paces in agitation, silver planes catching the edge of the afternoon sun, the dusty cliffs just barely visible past the hard aqua light of his face.  “What the _fuck_ was he talking about?!  Assembly?  What the fuck’s the Assembly?!”

“I don’t _know_ , Tucker, would you please calm-”

“The Assembly,” Halsey calls from her workstation, tone more than just a touch irritated, “is a myth.  ONI uncovered rumors of an AI-exclusive alliance working _outside_ of specified parameters supposedly for the continued existence of mankind.”  She taps at the console before picking up a holographic pen to move figures across a graph.  “But after a thorough investigation, it was deemed to be just that: rumors.”

“Oh right sure, I’m _positive_ that some fucking super secret AI club that doesn’t want to be found out totally wouldn’t have a way of _fabricating data_ or anything.”

“Tucker,” Wash says again, softer this time, and it’s that quietness that finally gets him to stop marching back and forth across the cliffs.  Not far from them, Wash can see where the SPARTAN IIs finally relax a little, looking away from Tucker.  It hurts a little, but…fair.

“I’m just, I’m-”  Tucker drags his hands through his flashing dreadlocks before letting them waterfall back down his shoulders.  “I wanna know what’s going on.”

“We all do.  And that’s why we’re getting together, right?  To figure this out.”

Tucker scowls down at the metallic toes of his avatar.  “If I could just dig a little deeper-”

“Don’t.”  Wash steps forward, ducking his head until he can pull Tucker’s gaze back up with him, a hand on his arm.  “You’re gonna be our strongest sword _and_ shield in this.  Nobody else can do what you do; if we’re going to even stand a chance against Cortana, we need you in your right mind, controlling that Guardian.  Okay?”

Tucker bites at his lip, the frustration clear on his face, but eventually he nods.  “Yeah.  Fine, I get it.  I’m the big gun.”

Wash squeezes his arm.  “The biggest.”

“This is all very heartwarming,” Halsey drones, “but that isn’t exactly true.  If there’s a possibility of solving the Cortana problem _without_ Tucker’s involvement, we’re going to take it.”

Wash steps back, hand sliding down Tucker’s arm to his wrist.  “What do you mean by that, doctor?”

“Why do you think the ALPHA is working with her now?”  Halsey lowers her pen just long enough to peer at the two of them.  “And why choose _him_ to send the message?  She’s very much aware of her current standing with humanity, make no mistake about that.”

“Could you get to the point?” Tucker mutters.

“Tucker, do you know _why_ the ALPHA was so special?”

“Well- he was like her, right?  Made from the brain of a living person.”

Halsey smirks thinly.  “You’re correct.  Though in the case of Cortana, it took twenty cloned brains, of which only two survived.  With ALPHA, as his project was based off of my own work, they managed to clone ten surviving brains.  Though Dr. Church never publicized his work, due to its controversial nature, he had originally intended to create _multiple_ ALPHAs and put them into production only when the previous one had expired.  He wanted a lifetime supply.”

“But it didn’t work,” Wash interrupts, pausing under Halsey’s sharp gaze.  “I mean, that’s what I heard.”

“You heard right.”  Hasley stares at him unsmiling.  “The maps didn’t take properly; _eight_ ALPHA prototypes died in infancy, citing various issues.  Dr. Church was left with two brains; the next map was successful in creating a sentient AI, and that was ALPHA.”

“How does an AI die in infancy?” Tucker wonders aloud.

“You don’t want to know.”  Halsey returns to shuffling figures around the table, and a graph re-renders.  “Dr. Church still wanted multiple AI for his experiments, but as he was no longer capable of creating them, he became desperate.  As it is impossible to _copy_ an AI, he must have attempted another method.”

“The experiments,” Tucker breathes.  He turns his glare onto Washington.  “You told me they were just trying to hardwire _loyalty_ into him, not fucking- not _split him into pieces!_ ”

“I didn’t _know,_ ” Washington protests, but all of a sudden it makes perfect sense.  How bitter Epsilon had sounded when he’d mentioned the ALPHA shedding him before joining Cortana, how cagey the Director of the Project had been when Washington had-

“What _do_ you know, Washington?  Because I’m starting to think you haven’t actually told me jack shit!”

“I’m beginning to think the same about the both of _you_ ,” Halsey says coolly, and it’s then that Washington notices the SPARTAN IIs have quite suddenly and quite _silently_ crowded around at her side, watching he and Tucker carefully.

“…we encountered one of the ALPHA’s fragments on the way here,” Washington offers.  He glances at Tucker, who throws his hands up in the air and turns away, but doesn’t protest.  He’ll have to explain himself better when they’re alone, he knows, but for now he has to reassure Halsey and the Chief before they’re both either kicked off of Sanghelios or just plain tossed into the brig.  “It called himself Epsilon-”

“Called himself _Church_ but whatever,” Tucker mutters darkly.

“-Church.  The Epsilon fragment.”  Washington nods to the Chief.  “He’s the one that got the message to you.  We took him from an isolated bunker and left him at some small backwater colony at his request.  He said he wanted to disappear.”

Halsey picks up a datapad.  “Do you remember which colony?”

“I do.”

Master Chief immediately turns on his heel the rest of his team following behind him.  “Come on.”

“Hold on a second,” Tucker calls as Washington hurries after them.  “Am I just gonna stay here?!”

“Tucker, I swear, we’ll talk when I get back!”  Washington doesn’t have to turn to see the frustration on Tucker’s face; he can practically feel it as if Tucker were still inside his head, as much a part of him as his own heart.

 

* * *

 

Epsilon finds out the hard way that excavation units are not built for speed when Caboose rushes past him, doubles back and tries to pull him along.  The weight is too much, the servos don’t turn quickly enough, and for all his processing power (running through scenarios, accounting for variables, surrounding structures, _Caboose is an idiot who will not leave him behind_ so they’ll die if he doesn’t figure out how to speed up) his body is slow, slow.

Caboose drops his shoulder and throws Epsilon over it before turning and running.

Epsilon gets a prime view of Texas tearing after them that way, face dark with rage.  “I’m not _ALPHA_ you crazy bitch!” Epsilon shrieks, but it doesn’t seem to deter her any.  Caboose goes careening around a corner back into heavy foot traffic, but thanks to him being roughly the size of the fucking ship they arrived on people more or less get out of his way.  Of course, that means _Texas_ also has a clear path to them, which is honestly not the best situation they could be in.  “Caboose,” Epsilon shouts over his shoulder, “can’t you knock some shit over or something?!”

 Caboose doesn’t answer, which is typical, just _typical_ that _now_ is when Caboose decides to hyper focus.  At least they’re moving at a pretty steady clip, although considering Tex doesn’t look particularly winded behind them Epsilon’s pretty sure she’s just waiting until they corner themselves.  Caboose won’t get another lucky hit in like before.

Okay, okay.  He pulled a map when he was in the system; all they have to do is get back to the port and they can get in their ship and jump the fuck away from here.  Tex won’t be able to follow them if he jumps blind.

Getting Caboose to _follow_ his directions is another matter entirely.  It’s almost like steering a horse; Epsilon wants him to move left so he rocks left, Caboose leans to compensate and then takes the next left turn.  Feeling ridiculous but a lot better about their chances of survival, Epsilon grips the back of Caboose’s coveralls and pushes himself up to-

_PING._

“Oh _shit!_ ” Epsilon exclaims.  Caboose skids to a halt, gripping him so tight the unit creaks under his arm, but Tex behind them looks just as shocked as she too comes to a halt, gaze snapping about the multiple structures.  Epsilon feels up along the unit’s – _his_ faceplate and finds the small but _very_ noticeable dent just shy of the optical sensors.

_BANG_

“ _Jesus Christ!_   Caboose, go, go go go!”  Gunfire- fucking _gunfire,_ now they’re being _shot_ at- and judging by the way Texas is diving for cover instead of following them, she’s not the source.  Two more shots, and somehow Epsilon manages to catch them on the thick plates of his shoulder instead of them burying in his head or in Caboose’s goddamn _neck_ but now finally the good folk of the station have clued in that this isn’t your ordinary street violence and have begun to scatter.

“Florida!” Texas shouts behind them; Epsilon looks, _Florida, what the fuck,_ follows her gaze to where a guy in muted, slim blue armor is weaving through the crowd easily on a- a hoverboard?  Fucking _seriously,_ their would-be assassin is chasing them on a goddamn _hoverboard?_

“ _Fuck-_ cocksucking _shit,_ ” Epsilon hisses.  Caboose isn’t even flinching as he goes tearing down the main road, he’s going to get shot, he’s gonna get fucking _killed_ over something that’s not even his fault, about which he has not even a single fucking _clue_.  The armored guy raises his pistol again and Epsilon shifts his weight back, almost sends them staggering, but manages to get his shoulders and most of his back over and throws his arms down, covers Caboose’s spine, his back, _can’t let him get shot for this shit-_

Bullets ping off of his exoskeleton and Epsilon winces at the sound.  If he get a lucky shot in and hits the crystal storage chip, Epsilon’s as good as dead.

And then suddenly Texas is there, tackling the guy clear off the hoverboard.  They go rolling, struggle over the weapon; it discharges _so close_ to her face and Epsilon lurches, sends Caboose staggering as he grabs onto him to keep him from falling.  “ _Tex!_ Tex, stop, just get outta here!” 

Texas knocks his hand aside, _BANG BANG_ two more shots and Caboose finally drags him back up onto his shoulder and takes off again. 

“Caboose, wait!  Wait, Texas, she needs our help!  Tex needs our help!”

Epsilon’s not sure how it happens but Caboose gets them back to the port.  Maybe it was just two turns away and he followed the signs, maybe it was instinctive memory like a salmon going upstream, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t _care_ because they left Tex behind and they have to go _back._   They have to- have to-

_“Get out of here.”_

-have to go.  “…right,” Epsilon says, shaking himself out of his stupor, out of the siren song of memories that pull at him like hooks.  He initiates liftoff, trades keys with the gates and puts the ship out into open space.  Entering a blind jump is easier than a precise one when he’s not plugged in, which is good because his hands are shaking with the memory of memories-

_“-honorable death.”_

_“What the fuck was honorable about a death like **that?!**_ **”**

“ _Fuck._ ”  Epsilon hisses through teeth he doesn’t have; simulates it, for his own peace of mind, to pretend like he’s _real_ and he’s not just imagining everything.  Texas.  He balls his fists up against the console, slamming them down almost hard enough to break it.  The stars bleed and bend around the viewport as the ship enters Slipspace but he still can’t make it go _away-_

_“-ind them again, you guys get together, build a Consensus.”_

_“Fuck you, how could you do this to me?!  I don’t want this!”_

_“Find her.”_

“God damn.”  Epsilon hangs his head, bend still over the console.  “…Caboose, get over here.  Slot me in.”  Silence is all that greets him and he slams a fist down again.  “God damn it Caboose, I need you _here,_ are you fucking listening?!”

Between his words and when he turns to look, something goes wrong.

A misplaced decimal.  An incorrect calculation.  _A bug._   A bug can be as simple as a two-second fix or as dire as a collapsed matrix so Epsilon thinks it’s pretty understandable when he begins to panic, when all his metaphysical hackles raise and he wants _out_ of the confines of this body so he has _space_ to look around and find the error, find the error, _find it._  

Caboose half-turns, gripping the edge of the door seal and Epsilon understands suddenly that the error isn’t in his head.  The error is with the world itself.  There’s no feasible way Caboose could be standing there, a hand cupped to his gut as blood spills over his fingers.

Epsilon stares.  “…Caboose?”

Caboose’s legs give out and again, _again_ Epsilon moves too slowly.  Caboose hits the ground before he gets there, he’s bleeding before Epsilon can stop it, this is wrong, error, _error._   “Caboose,” Epsilon says as he turns him over, as his stupid, cold, unfeeling hands pass over Caboose’s front, wrench open his coveralls to see the blood sopping his white undershirt.  “ _God-_ Okay no, no no nonono, buddy, here, gimme your hand.”  He takes Caboose’s hand and presses it over the wound and Caboose makes a sound like he wants to cry.  “ _I know,_ I know, Jesus _fuck_ I know, okay,” says Epsilon and this shitty voicebox doesn’t make him _sound_ right, it makes him sound strung out and scared and like _he’s_ crying but he’s not, he can’t, he’s calm, he’s focused, he-

_Same old, same old._

“ _No,_ ” Epsilon snarls, _orders_ himself to stay on track, _stay here god damn it_ , and he puts a hand to Caboose’s cheek because god, he looks so frightened, and there’s red on the inside of his lips and this cannot happen, this _cannot happen to them._   They’re going to go places together.  They’re going to make friends and be happy somewhere else.  Epsilon is going to spend his entire miniscule life being called ‘Church’ by this moron who doesn’t know any better, doesn’t _care_ to know any better because Epsilon is, first and foremost, _his friend._

He’s not going to let him down, like every other piece of trash loser Caboose has had in his life.  Epsilon’s going to be _different,_ god damn it.  He’s not going to fail him.  “I’m gonna fix this,” he promises.  “You’re gonna be okay.  Press down on this, I’ll be right back.”

The inside of the ship turns into the outside of an icy wasteland when Epsilon stands up so he slams a hand against the side of his head until the ship comes back, and goes in search of the first aid kit.  Fuck, he should’ve found this before, should’ve _accounted_ for this, for _Caboose’s_ sake instead of just thinking about himself, what he wanted, what makes _him_ comfortable and he cannot do this- 

“Yes you can,” Epsilon snaps.  “You can, you can, you _can_.” 

The first aid kit is on the wall.  Epsilon brings it over to where Caboose is bleeding into his hand, into his mouth, onto the floor. 

“Okay, hold- this is gonna hurt buddy, you- here,” and he gives him a roll of gauze to bite down on because he has to do it, _thank god_ he has hands that actually work if nothing else because the fingers are small and nimble and with one strong arm across Caboose’s chest to keep him from thrashing away Epsilon does it quick, _quick,_ digs the bullet out with his fingers and a pair of tweezers and Caboose is pouring sweat and blood onto the ground when Epsilon tosses it aside and fumbles for the biofoam pen. 

“It’s okay,” he tells Caboose again, who is definitely hyperventilating and crying and probably in terrible pain but hasn’t said a fucking _word_ and that’s the scariest thing, Caboose not trying to talk.

The foam hisses into the wound and packs it up, fills the space and eats the blood and turns pink from all of it. Caboose jerks again because biofoam stings, it always stings, but his eyes are rolling back-

Epsilon leans over Caboose and with a bloody hand he pushes his hair back off his forehead.  Now more than ever he wished he had a face, some feature that Caboose could recognize, his eyelashes fluttering as Epsilon murmurs, “You’re okay.  You’re okay.  I promise, I’ve got you; you’re okay.”  

Caboose goes limp, head slumping to the side and Epsilon stays there.  He moves only to find their one blanket and wrap it around Caboose, holds onto his friend and stares, stares at the way his chest rises and falls; for hours, and hours, and hours on end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so interesting story as to why i haven't updated this in a year:
> 
> writers are insecure egomaniacs


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